I was in Rome for a few months (again) and needed a hack to run around the city. It would have to be Wop as the cops, thieves and general populace gave those mounted on foreign cycles a hard time. I fancied a Ducati as I hadn't had much experience of the breed and it'd be interesting to know if all the horror stories were true. What should turn up for a few hundred notes but a very tatty '69 Ducati Mach 1, a 249cc OHC single which claimed almost 30 horses at 8500rpm! Not well known in the UK, but it's basically an older version of the Mk.3 which later became the infamous Desmo 250.
The most immediate problem was starting the beast. The kickstart was on the left-hand side, proving reluctant to move let alone turn the 10:1 compression engine over. After a bit of practice I got the hang of kicking it over with my right foot whilst balancing both myself and machine on the left foot. The foldaway footpeg was so loose that it invariably flapped down, taking off a layer of skin from my shin.
After about twenty minutes of tearful screaming, body dislocating lurches and going through my whole retinue of curses, the bugger began to make promising noises. The large Dell'Orto carb had a huge bellmouth sticking out on the right side, which celebrated my 100th kick by belching out a huge fireball that singed the car the bike was parked next to. Three kicks later the engine roared into life.
I wasn't sure if the top end rattles or the straight through megaphone was the greater assault on my head. After five minutes of blipping the throttle I had to stop the engine by putting my hand over the bellmouth. There wasn't an ignition switch and the suction almost took a layer of skin off my hand. I spent the rest of the day recovering from the instant migraine and enduring medical attention for my bruised and bloodied shin.
The next day, wearing absurd knee high boots and earplugs, I approached the machine again, armed with a brand new spark plug and a large hammer. Twelve soul destroying kicks later, the engine was running and I took her for a quick ride around the block.
The gearchange was on the right, combining a step-thru toe and heel lever with a worn linkage mechanism. As it worked the wrong way around I tried to take off in second, which with the vicious clutch, stalled the engine and I had to go through the starting routine again. There was no way I could kick the engine over with my left leg, any time the motor stalled I had to pull over, put the bike on its stand and kick away.
Once on the move ferocious buzzing tried to undo the handlebars and dissolve the footpegs. There wasn't an ounce of rubber on the Duke and the engine formed a stressed part of the frame, so every bit of vibration was sent straight through to the rider...... Ducati enthusiasts will tell you that this is just part of their character and the payback is a directness of action that is well worth any minor quibbles about having teeth fall out or parts fall off. Lies, lies and more damn lies!
It was pretty obvious from the vibes and Puch Maxi performance that the valves were in desperate need of attention. There were only two of them, so I figured it'd be a five minute job. After consulting a manual written in Italian it seemed necessary to pull the head off before the valves could be fixed! The Ducati has bevel drive from the crankshaft to the camshaft, such a nasty, expensive piece of engineering that it's almost unique to the Ducati factory.........it needs to be shimmed to stop it tearing itself apart.
The engine came apart easily enough, leaving me with about a hundred different bits spread over the table and little idea of how to put them back together. It dawned on me that these engines could be sold in kit form as an intelligence test or game. Anyway after about a week of trying various permutations I got it all polished up, sorted out and put back together. I was quite impressed with the quality of the components and all the bearings seemed okay.
The engine came to life after about fifty kicks. Once it'd warmed up it sounded tolerably quiet and the first burst of acceleration brought a grin to my face which stayed there when I had to brake hard, as the SLS front drum was more than adequate. The motor didn't like to tickover, needed the throttle blipped in a crazy manner which brought on a dose of clutch drag that led to a stalled motor.
The first time it happened she started first kick, the second time I was overconfident, not expecting the massive kickback that threw me over the handlebars, left me somersaulting down the road. I pulled myself out of the gutter, thinking that the machine was laughing at me and gave it a kick in the engine that almost broke my toes. The next try she kicked back so hard that even though I was ready for it, my leg felt like it had been broken. I hobbled around on one foot, screaming abuse, whilst a group of amused Italians gathered around to view the mad Englishman. They were persuaded to give me a push, which got her going again with a tickover at about 5000 revs and accompanying body churning vibes.
The points had gone way out, altering the timing. This turned out to be a 50 mile chore, the engine going from running fine to a ragged old beast in that mild mileage. When it was running properly, the Veglia speedo would waver between 50 and 120mph, which judging by the speed of an accompanying vehicle worked out at about 75mph top whack. It might've done a bit more but my body couldn't taking the disturbing level of vibes. Neither could the headlamp that fell apart, the silencer that fell off nor the clip-ons that kept undoing until I drilled a hole through them and the forks and Araldited in some self-tappers.
The lights were so pathetic and short-lived that every time I went out at night I took a couple of torches with me as back-up. The thunderous noises out of the exhaust warned of my approach and had Wop pensioners weak at the knees thinking the war had started again, wondering where was the platoon of tanks. The horn was similarly useless and redundant. The sight and sound of the Mach 1 was so outrageous that it left the cops open-mouthed, so gobsmacked that by the time they got their act together I'd made good my escape. Their gesticulations were so mad that I couldn't make any sense of them, so just ignored them.
When the battery fell out the engine still ran so I decided there was little point replacing it, a couple of bicycle lamps doing just as good a job as the 6V originals. Wop electrics were so dubious that some past owner had already wired the alternator directly to the points and coil, itself a massive item off some Italian cage.
Comfort was limited by the clip-ons, hard seat and excess of vibes, but the bike was so basic that it weighed only 250lbs and with its narrowness could be chucked through the frenzy of mad cagers that is nominally known as Italian traffic. The exhaust drowned out the chorus of horns. I soon found myself riding in a thoroughly delinquent and deranged manner. Despite its brutish manners the Duke was fun!
It was also economical, the four gallon tank lasting for over 300 miles, although any attempt to put unleaded in was met with an engine that refused to even think about starting. The sump needed a half litre of straight 30 oil every 100 miles and there was always a small puddle left under the bike after a night spent standing, but no obvious leak.
The bike came with some ancient Pirellis on its rusty 18 inch wheels. Even with cracked sidewalls it handled okay on dry roads but the merest hint of water caused it to slide about so violently that it recalled the only time I'd ever gone ice-skating. A new set of Pirellis gave it a sure-footed feel in the wet. The handling was fine for such an old hack, these singles were always famous for the way they could be thrown around. The suspension was still harsh, so stiff that only the deepest of pot-holes would produce much movement. Rome roads are slightly better than London's but after a day riding around town I needed a couple of hours in a dubious massage parlour to recover.
The mileometer now reads 78000 miles. Yeah, amazing if it's true. I'm tempted to ride it back to the UK but I don't really trust the engine for more than a 100 miles at a time and reckon my body would be completely wrecked before I got halfway back. They're worth at least a grand in the UK so maybe I should buy half a dozen and send them back in a crate!
Dick Lewis