Adjust the choke. Tap the tickler. Brace myself. And jump! And… jump! And… jump! Whew. The little Ducati growled and shook as I gently blipped the throttle, willing it to keep running. Getting it started wasn’t so bad. Now I just had to figure out how to ride it.

It was a brisk Saturday morning in mid-September, and RoadBike publisher Buzz Kanter and I were at the Plattekill Ski Area in Roxbury, New York, gearing up for our first Motogiro USA. Patterned after Italy’s famous Motogiro D’Italia, this AMA-sanctioned, two-day event is run by the US Classic Racing Association. It’s open to street-legal motorcycles made before 1968, as well as some later models with similar designs. Basically, almost everything in sight was older than me.

I’d borrowed a 1961 Ducati 200cc single that belonged to USCRA director Bob Coy. I was the first person to ride the bike in over 12 years! Ed Scott, owner of Eddie’s Vintage Motorcycles (www.eddiesvintagemotorcycles.com), had restored the bike for the race. It had a mean stance, with a sleek silhouette, clip-on bars, and a racing exhaust. Yet it was such a tiny, simple thing — though riding it, at first, was not so simple.

The little Duc presented all kinds of challenges: a heavy clutch pull, incredibly responsive steering, reversed shifter and brake pedals, a GP shift pattern (one up and three down), and the dreaded kickstarter. Before the race, I took a practice run with vintage Ducati guru John Strempfer, repeating my new mantra: “Shift right, brake left.”

A Different Kind Of Race

Here’s how the event works. Every competitor has a time card, which must be stamped at the beginning and end of each leg of the race and before the special trials. Everyone is assigned a start and end time, with the bikes departing 30 seconds apart. You just follow a route sheet and go your own pace.

The race includes ability trials, which are basically cone slaloms that must be completed in a given time. A very slow given time. There are penalties for putting your feet on the ground, making U-turns, etc., and, of course, for finishing too quickly. So, to succeed in the ’Giro, you don’t have to ride your tail off to beat anyone, you just need to be smart. This makes for an incredibly fun, laid-back event with its share of surprises. Eddie had volunteered to follow us all in the crash truck, and we kept him busy.

All of the racers were friendly and helpful, and the group had great stories and a lot of humor. I mean, you’ve got to laugh when you get excited about hitting 55 mph.

Me And My Duck

The Ducati was much faster than I expected, and its exhaust note was so gratifying. Slowing for turns required more thought than usual, and the front brake was kind of a joke, but, hey, every successful maneuver was a small triumph.

Following the route sheet, which I’d taped to the tank, I spent much of the first section riding alone. It was one of those quintessential autumn days in upstate New York, when the air is clean and sweet, and the landscape is wrapped in foliage the color of honey and wine. Sometimes, I’d crest a blind hill, and the land would suddenly open up into a broad, beautiful valley. I’ve never done anything as right as riding a simple little bike along quiet country roads on a perfect fall day in New York.

With a few complications.

If you’ve read any of my stories within the last, say, six months, you probably know I like riding on gravel as much as poking myself in the eye with a stick. Well, the Giro course had gravel aplenty, as many of those country roads were unpaved. I took my time, eventually picking up confidence and speed. Fellow racer Bill Murar (#55) very kindly rode with me for a long ways, offering much-needed moral support.

Gravel aside, part of what makes the vintage experience so much fun is that you can’t really predict whether, or when, your bike will break down. Mine ran well all the way to our lunch break, but began stalling a lot in the second half of the day. Finally, about 30 miles from the finish, it wouldn’t start anymore. When John Strempfer and some friends rolled up, they spent almost an hour trying to get the little Duc going. (Fouled plug, dirty points, dead battery.) Eventually, Eddie and the crash truck caught up to us, I scored a fresh battery, and I managed to finish the day, albeit well past my assigned end time.

That night, Eddie pored over the Ducati, surrounded by onlookers, and I learned another important part of the vintage culture: repair by committee. For some reason, the bike was running a total-loss charging system, making it nearly impossible to go a full day on one battery. Eddie’s quick fix was to duct-tape a second battery onto the frame, for when the first one died.

So, I started out on Sunday with two batteries and a lot of hope. This time, we had only one 85-mile loop to ride — and a very scenic one, at that. The Ducati ran fine but refused to idle. I had to keep the throttle cracked open, even while stopping (yikes!). Eddie rescued me a couple times, as the bike started having problems. But the first battery saw me all the way through mile 77. When it died, I switched to battery two — which gave up about a mile and a half from the finish.

That’s when I learned the most painful lesson in vintage life: Just because you’ve run almost the entire race doesn’t mean you’ll get to finish it. Oh, no. When Eddie arrived with the crash truck, he spent over an hour trying to get the bike going. Finally, after the 100th unsuccessful bump-start, we sadly rolled the little Ducati into the truck.

As we were driving to the finish, however, two racers appeared in a sidecar rig. The race officials said I wouldn’t be disqualified if I rolled across the finish line on two wheels, so the riders offered to tow me with the sidecar. But the idea of being towed on a bike was even less appealing than that stick in the eye.

I weighed my options. I looked at Eddie, who had worked so hard to keep the bike running. I looked at the two racers, who were excited to help me. I knew what I had to do.

Okay, I thought, these guys aren’t idiots. This has got to be possible. We tied webbing to the Ducati’s frame, and the rider in the sidecar held on while they towed me up the hill to the finish. I was terrified as the bike slid back and forth on the dirt road, but it stayed upright. And as we crossed the finish line, we were greeted with a standing ovation. That’s the way to end a race!

For the record, I walked away with the “Snatched From The Jaws Of Defeat” award. RB

Mark your calendars — next year’s Motogiro USA will be held on September 15-17, 2006. For more information, go to www.race-uscra.com.

Brewery Ommegang

On Saturday, we stopped for lunch at one of my favorite micro-breweries: Brewery Ommegang in Cooperstown, New York (an area I once called home). The facility has the look of a traditional Belgian farm, with pretty architecture and a pastoral landscape.

The brewery let us roll right into the back field, where we parked in a long line of colorful machinery. Our motorcycles were the center of attention, especially my rare, racy little Ducati.

While the Duc was surrounded by fans, I slipped away for a tour of the facility with Brew Master Randy Thiel. Randy gave me an in-depth look at the brewing process and told me about life in beer world, where regular tastings are de rigueur. Where do I sign up? Well, at least the brewery offers daily tours and tastings, along with special events. Info: Brewery Ommegang, 656 Cty Hwy 33, Cooperstown, NY 13326, 607/544-1803, www.ommegang.com.

Small Bikes, Big Fun

By Buzz Kanter

Forget all the macho stuff typically associated with motorcycle racing. Forget anything related to Bigger Is Better. And forget about cutthroat competition. Motogiro is simply about having fun.

I signed up for the Motogiro USA almost as a lark. I bought and quickly prepped a vintage Ducati 160 (see page 42), and I put maybe 20 test miles on the tiny one-lunger before loading it into our truck and driving up to the event. When I arrived, I discovered that most riders were over 40, and I was pleased to see a number of women in our ranks. Everyone was friendly, helpful, and ready for fun. And, while I’d expected most of the bikes to be exotic European machines, I’d say more than half were Japanese makes, and most cost between $500 and $1,000.

Saturday morning, when my start time came up, I shot out of the starting area and accelerated as hard as I could down the steep dirt road. A mile into it, I was flying along at about 50 mph when my engine abruptly died. My rear wheel locked up and began sliding around to my right! Fearing I’d seized the engine, I pulled in the clutch and steered into the slide, trying to regain control before I ended up in the trees. Once I was able to control the steering, I downshifted and released the clutch. I held my breath until the engine caught and started to run.

Riding at half-throttle for a few miles, I gradually increased speed until I had enough confidence to open up the throttle again. I caught a couple of racers on very small bikes and passed them. I was feeling pretty cool about my accomplishment… until I realized that they’d made a turn on the course and I’d missed it. I looped back and caught up with them again, feeling a lot less cocky.

Later that morning, my bike stalled and died, putting it and me in the chase truck. At the lunch stop, a handful of racers with tons of knowledge about small Ducatis helped me out — we reset the points, and the little bike ran well for the rest of the event.

Over the two days of riding, I had a blast tucking in with various groups of racers. Occasionally, we’d stop for a break along the way or to take photos. I even rode with Jessica a few times. She was doing great on a borrowed Ducati 200 — though she never did kick my butt as promised.

It all started with a conversation that I had with Bob Coy, a friend of mine for many years. Bob, a retired teacher and vintage bike junkie, is also the director of the United States Classic Race Association. He was excited about bringing a Motogiro-style race to the US, and the feeling was contagious.

I knew Bob from when I used to road race with him back in the late ’70s. When he offered to loan me a small-displacement Italian classic sportbike to compete in the US Motogiro, he caught my attention. The race sounded like a hoot — a bunch of older guys trying to relive their glory days on small classic bikes, tearing around on public roads in New York state. It was my kind of event, so I signed on immediately. However, since I’m not comfortable riding Other People’s Bikes in competition, I began looking around for a fun, affordable bike of my own to campaign instead (see the full story on page 44).

The event includes five motorcycle classes: Ultralight (up to 65cc), Lightweight (up to 125cc), Middleweight (up to 200cc), Heavyweight (up to 250cc), and Vintage Sidecar. Weighing a couple of pizzas over 200 pounds and standing about 6',

I ruled out the tiny bikes and considered buying a 200 or 250cc machine. I searched the local classifieds and eBay for a few weeks before finding a highly modified (read: pieced together from mismatched parts of questionable backgrounds) Ducati 160/250 on eBay. Luckily for me, the seller was located about an hour from our offices. Having owned a few Ducati 250 singles in college, I recalled pleasant experiences with these sweet little machines.

The seller was a fast-talking guy who claimed that his son had built the bike as a project and needed to sell it, though I don’t recall why. The bike looked cool with its clip-on handlebars, café racer-style tank, and solo seat. He said it ran great, but, like all Ducati singles, it didn’t idle because of the Italian carb. I didn’t believe his explanation about the carb being the culprit and figured he just wasn’t a good enough mechanic to sort it out properly.

First things first, I thought, as I started the bike and let it warm up a bit, and then rode it up and down the street. It ran, but not well, and it certainly wouldn’t idle. The brakes were pretty sketchy, and the clutch was quite hard to pull. The cables (brakes, clutch, and throttle) felt shot.

On the upside, the engine had plenty of compression and didn’t make any scary sounds. It was from a 160 Monza, a decent bike that never got much of a following here in the US. According to the seller, the bike’s frame, swingarm, and forks came from a narrow-case 250, which he claimed was the best-handling Ducati single ever made. I’ll take his word on that. I gave him the cash, loaded the little duck in the truck, and left.

The bike had potential, though it needed to be sorted out and would benefit from a good detailing. It had a tiny 6-volt battery, which I planned to replace with something larger, and the factory magneto ignition. I wasn’t crazy about the weird-looking, oversized muffler, which I guessed came off a 1980s Honda. But the Ducati’s overall look appealed to me, and I couldn’t wait to see what we could do with it.

Time was getting tight before the race, and magazine deadlines were looming, so I brought the bike to my friend Vito Sabato in Stamford, Connecticut, to look it over. Vito is a very talented machinist and an accomplished motorcycle builder. Oh, and he’s one of a few dozen people in the country who’ve built and drag raced Pro Stock Harleys. I asked Vito if he could get the Ducati to run better and to idle. I also asked him to figure out how to get the seat to lay flatter on the frame. The way it was mounted, it looked like it was sliding downhill into the fuel tank.

Within a couple of weeks, Vito called and said the bike was ready. He’d cleaned out the carb, set the ignition, fabricated a new battery box, installed a new 6-volt battery, rerouted and modified the front brake and clutch cables, and lowered the seat. When I asked how he got the seat to lay so flat on the frame, he laughed and said his very fat neighbor came over and sat on it. Then he explained how he’d lowered the rear fender to give the seat the needed clearance and fabricated new seat mounting tabs. I inspected his work, which looked at least as good as anything the factory would have done.

Vito insisted that I start up the bike and ride around his neighborhood. “But,” he cautioned, “don’t ever use the choke to start it. Simply press down the tickler a couple of times and start kicking.” I did as he suggested, and the Duc fired right up. After my ride, I came back impressed with Vito’s handiwork. The bike, small as it is, was a blast to ride. Leaning into the clip-on handlebars and gripping the tank with my knees at no more than 40 or 50 mph, I had visions of vintage GP glory. Paul Smart and Mike Hailwood, watch out!

I brought the bike back to the office the week before the races and spent a few hours working on it. I glued the black rubber seal back onto the points cover, lubed and adjusted the chain, and generally checked the little machine over. The wheels looked terrible and showed many years of neglect. But after a couple of sessions blending steel wool, WD-40, and elbow grease, much of the rust and years of accumulated crap disappeared, and the wheels started to clean up. An additional session with metal polish even made them shine a little.

Next, I installed an old Silentium muffler that I’d bought on eBay. Even with the rust, it looked better than the modern muffler that the previous owner had installed. I then cleaned and polished all the chrome as best I could in the limited time I had. Finally, I added RoadBike stickers on high-vis areas, put a fresh coat of wax on all the painted surfaces, and called it done.

By the start of the Motogiro, I had less than $1,500 invested in this cool little Ducati. That’s not free, but I’d say it’s good, cheap fun that most people could figure out a way to afford. RB