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Tag Archives: Ducati

Emmjay Goes all Spartan

30 Wednesday Nov 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay

≈ 26 Comments

Tags

Ducati, Spartan, Sydney Motorcycle Show 2012

..... and it goes even faster than it looks.... the car, not the driver

Well, the 2011 Sydney Motorcycle (and Scooter) Show was an interesting affair – not merely because Ducati unveilled their new – soon to be world conquering superbike …. the 195 horsepower (145 kilowatts) Panigale 1198.  Nor was it that BMW showed their new 1,300 cc six cylinder monster (which, let’s be clear about this, is roughly the size of a four seater lounge …. but not as easy to move through Sydney traffic).

There were two highlights of the show – the first is this lovely hand made carbon fibre miracle – the Spartan V.  Why the Spartan ?  Because the designers and builders (aircraft engineers) Dad comes from Sparta.

This one above is truly an amazing car.  It’s a prototype, fully compliant with Australian automotive race car design – and when it goes into production it will cost about $90k.

Considering that the Spartan can thrash a Ferrari with less than half of the prancing horse’s power and just two cylinders – compared with the Ferrari’s big V8 – and with the Ferrari costing about five times as much, that’s not a mean feat.  The reason it can perform this racing miracle is straightforward – power to weight ratio.

The Spartan’s engine is a Ducati twin 1198 cc – a relatively simple but awesome donk with massive grunt – well-used by Ducati to win numerous Superbike World Championships.  But here’s the trick … (note ellipsis, grammar police).  The Spartan weighs just 300 kilograms (not counting a fat arsed geriatric driver).  Now considering that the bike from which the engine comes weighs 173 kilos, and  the roll-cage in the car must meet minimum crash strength standards, it’s amazing how the engineers can add a body, two extra wheels and race tires, steering gear and massive brakes for so little weight gain.

The Spartan can go from rest to 100 kph in under three seconds and pull up well before the driver’s lunch.

This machine is put together with such care and precision that it’s a joy to look at.  The design and craftsmanship is sublime.  I wish the men from Sparta all success for their baby rocketship.

But wait… there’s more.

Many modern bikes are huge capacity massive monsters that seem to be more like furniture or motor homes to me.  I’m a simple(ton) guy with simple tastes and I am attracted to the industry trend to what is referred to as “naked bikes” – stripped of all that fibreglass gee-gaw and gimmickry like bluetooth communications and heated handlebars   – down to the basics – engine, wheels, tank, seat, brakes, lights – all one needs to belt around and have a good time.

There were some pleasant naked offerings from Triumph and Moto Guzzi – as well as a thin slice of the massive baby-boomer brand reminiscent of chrome plated aircraft carriers – Harley Davidsons.

But best of all was a bike – near and dear to my own heart – from the days when the Beatles were still in short pants in primary school.  It was a display bike to attract attention to a book-selling fundraising lady (Alana) who was raising money in support of research into the rare genetic condition called Batten’s disease.  Batten’s disease is a heart-breaking motor-neurone degenerative condition that claims the lives of children sufferers usually before they are ten.

The bike was … a 1954 BMW 250 single – beautifully restored.  And it caught my eye because I have one too… not restored and not running since about 1970.  I bought it in that condition in 1980 from a chap who lived a couple of doors up the road from my place (at the time) in Wagga.  Here’s the real deal:

1954 BMW R25/3

Astute observers will notice that this bike lacks a chain – and as far as I’m aware distinguishes itself by being the smallest shaft-drive motorcycle.  More than that, the wild, post-war austerity Germans added knobs to the frame for the attachment of a sidecar.

This one has the sidecar knobs on the right – suggesting that it is an import from America.

Alana quietly let me in on a secret that I already knew “The owner says it’s a bit of a pig – he’s inclined to get off and walk it up hills”.  The bike came about when BMW (who had been making superb 500cc flat twin bikes went for parsimony and basically rooted a beautiful engine design by chopping the flat twin in half, stuffed the natural engine harmonics of the flat twin and turned the surviving cylinder into the vertical plane – also not helping the air cooling much).

Such is life.  But since this little BM was made for my first birthday, it’s a nostalgic favourite – and the only other one I’ve seen in the flesh in over 30 years of being interested in bikes.

Biking to Timbuktu

19 Monday Jul 2010

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay

≈ 16 Comments

Tags

900ss, Ducati, motorbike, Timbuktu

Ducati 900SS

The Mighty Ducati 900ss

If there’s something more captivating than cuddling up to a quietly ticking Ducati 900SS on a coldish night in the Brindabellas and disappearing a flask of that fine product from Bundaberg (not the molasses, Merv, the distilled afterthought), then I’m yet to discover it.

Bike touring on a big twin is something delightful and an adventure that I can heartily recommend to readers, non-readers – and would be readers – of that old Robert M Pirsig classic “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance”.  As Mr P says, it gives one the opportunity to travel in the landscape, as opposed to seeing it flash past in the climate controlled six-speaker sound system four wheeled tin cocoon.

In summer one can savour the searing blast of a run across the Hay Plains at a fair clip in an open-face helmet and strain the occasional hopper through the moustache in a headlong rush to the next schooner of life saving chilled foamy liquid – carefully balancing a couple of hundred kilos of fine Italian metalwork, exquisite engineering and completely unpredictable electrics with the need to stay under the legal limit but be relaxed and wet enough to slip through the drought.

The point is to ride a machine that has a fair chance of allowing you to kill or main yourself, and an equal chance of not starting in the first place – leaving you to watch people you used to think were your mates disappear in a haze of smoke and raucous laughter down your street on only their back wheels, leaving you to fulfil the role of designated gooseberry – whose job it is to call Emergency Services when only Tommos Blue Heeler returns on Sunday night.

Unless you ride a classic bike, you miss out on the adrenalin rush associated with listening through the roar of bevel drive camshafts and mechanically-closed valves for those tiny telltale sounds that suggest a bearing is on the way out at 6,000 revs and you will be tasting the tarmac before you get to Bulahdelah.  Go ahead.  Nobody is going to notice you watching the temperature gauge and getting ready to go for the clutch.

Riding a big old bike and maybe sailing to Hobart are the last two ways you can scare yourself shirtless and experience the thrills and let’s face it pure terror of getting from Time to Timbuktu.

So how come it is those two dilettante fairies on SBS – Ewan Macgregor and Charlie Boorman can turn a major event like riding from John O’Groats to Capetown into the biggest and most boring festival of todger bothering on the small screen ?

Did you catch any of that tripe ?  I watched just the first episode and saw them struggle mightily with really fascinating things like getting a visa for their Yank friend to go through Libya.  Next time I’m going to ride through Libya, I’m going to enlist a couple of drop dead gorgeous ladies native to that turf to help ease my application through their customs formalities.  Yeah, right.

That, and Charlie’s dear wife being hospitalised just before kick off with some semi-fatal chest infection (in true scout fashion the old trout insisted that he go and she promised to pull through and cough a few encouraging bon mots down the sat line).  Give me strength.

From Chuck and Ew, I learnt quite a lot about international long distance bike travel.  Apparently these last thirty years, I’ve been doing it all wrong.  Instead of freezing crossing from Strachan to Hobart and getting snowed on in February (saved only by an open fire, a steak, a kilo of chocolate and several rums at the Derwent Bridge pub), I was supposed to be rescued by my backup crew and take a warm bath in the mobile home that was supposed to be following us a few dozen metres behind,

Just in case, you understand.

In case some of the extras from the remake of Deliverance wanted to get us to interact with the local gene pool – like it or not.  Sorry, I’m hopeless at doing pig impressions.

I think I need a few million dollars worth of film crew, support vehicles, the finest touring machines, a spare parts catalogue larger than California, several managers, my personal field surgeon, masseuse and a charismatic mate just like Charlie with eyes like two piss-holes in the snow.  The advantage is that nobody could tell that Charlie has just ridden non-stop through the deserts of Sudan (Go Ian Drury ! – I always wanted to squeeze him into a piece.) because Charlie always looks like that.  The purlieu of the mega wealthy – ultimate scruff – and the ability to hire someone far less attractive than oneself as a sidekick.  That’s IT !  I have gone through life totally without a Charlie-esque sidekick !  Although Merv would argue that I AM a Charlie-esque sidekick – or he might have said dropkick.  I’m not sure.

Through Ewan and Charlie’s august travel doco I also learnt how to cultivate a look somewhere between puzzled incomprehension and stifled frustration – possibly caused by having dental work inferior to my handsome, unfazed movie star colleague.  Or possibly because I have no actual idea what’s going on now, or what’s going to happen next – neither of which do I care to donate ordure over which of whatever. Of.

Hang on.  Can you wait on a bit ?  I’m practising diagnosing a mechanical problem by staring blankly at the silent engine cases and getting ready for my jovial and patronising exchanges with local tribesmen.  This one insists on giving me his spear ……..a fair trade for a travel doco this bad……

Emmjay

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