It’s a safe bet that many other motorcyclists you encounter are “brand loyal” to their current mount. Kawasaki guys bleed green, Honda guys proudly display their wings, Yamaha guys don’t think blue is a sad color at all, and even Moto Guzzi guys are proud of………..I don’t really know what they have to be proud of, but they are. But call it elitism, or boasting if you want, but nobody is a more fevered and adamant fan of their brand then the Ducatisti. They are after all riding what equates to the Ferrari of the two wheeled world and have a long and storied racing lineage to recant.
I’ve heard some describe it as overcompensation for being “structurally inadequate in male anatomy” to put it as politically correct as possible, but I feel it’s quite the opposite and Ducati’s are to the motorcyclists soul what Viagra is to the geriatric crowds sex lives. Invigorating. Is ownership always consistent with flat soled loafers, drinking espresso’s and grappa to excess, and a sudden penitent for proclaiming all that is right with the world as “bellisimo”? No, we’ll leave the Italia track suits and overly gel laden hair to those more suited
Do I own and ride one? Sure do. Am I boasting? Yep. Are there other brands with just as much or more to bring to the table as far as fun, handling, and horsepower? Yes. Are there others that have the allure, guttural satisfaction, and down right sex appeal that Ducati’s provide? In this guy’s opinion, no.
I was once told a long time ago that Ducati’s were temperamental, high maintenance, money bucket’s that could drain an oil sheiks fortune with a single 4v liquid cooled valve adjustment. That guy………….well, he was right.
But this is a minor inconvenience for the absolutely jaw dropping stares that are achieved by the clacking and rattling of a 2v air cooled Desmo when it rolls to a stop in traffic and I am able to spread just a tiny amount of my joy to those within ear shot. Then I slowly release the clutch and roar away in a symphony of thumps and booms the likes of a mid summer thunderstorm ripping across the rolling moraine just like my steed, clad in a shiny coat of Arreviderci Red enamel.
That to me is the essence of motorcycling.
Note: at some point in the future if I am forced to recant these statements or am called hypocritical for my loving views of a brand other than my Italian mistress, then please phone my editor at once to voice your disapproval at 1-800-EAT-SH*T