Affairs of the heart and common-sense are quite often at odds with each other. So it was with my passion for Ducati motorcycles. Since I first saw a 900SS roar past me in 1981, I have lusted after big vee twins, regardless of my more saner companions' advice. I'd heard tales of terrific handling (true), great gobs of smooth torque and power (true), ferocious brakes (only true after the EBC pads were ditched in favour of Ferodo's and Goodridge hose was fitted), and comfort at high speed (utter bullshit). Although this latter information was passed on by a friend who was well over six feet tall, my more compact frame of 5'7'' didn't seem to suit the bike. This ultimately led to a parting of the ways between MHR No.7 and myself.
Since most of my information had come from bike mags (most of whom were staffed by Ducati freaks) and the aforementioned tall friend, I decided to find out for myself if these bikes were any good. Off I went to 3X Motorcycles in Dorset to blag myself a test ride on a 900SS. The very nice people at 3X didn't have a SS demonstrator but would a 900SS with bellmouths and Conti's fitted do? I reluctantly agreed that in the circumstances it would and rapidly pulled on my lid to cover the smile that was spreading across my features. I followed one of their sales rep's on a Guzzi, spent the next 20 minutes trying to keep up and thrashing the arse off it. By the time we got back I was sold and didn't give the ache in my wrists a second thought. It was time to get serious and spend some money.
The search for a 900SS was fairly short and I ended up in Nottingham looking at a Mike Hailwood Replica, a 900SS with some flash bodywork. The owner produced a certificate stating it was model No. 900SS007, of a limited number of 100 to commemorate Mr Hailwood stuffing the Japanese at the IOM TT in 1978. Since then thousands have been made but mine had a one piece fairing, a GRP cover over the petrol tank and a single seat. After a quick ride I handed over £2200 (people are asking over seven grand, these days) and headed back to Southampton.
The ride home revealed a few things that I hadn't noticed before. Like the absence of steering lock requiring a ten point turn, the way the gearbox sulked and refused to final neutral if I was at a standstill, and the pain that slowly crept from my hips up to my back and took residence in my wrists. But these were minor problems outweighed by the handling and the powerful engine which seemed to hurl us across the landscape.
Various bits were added to this machine, like a dual seat, rear pegs, dog-leg levers, alloy bell-mouths, a rubber strap for the battery and a 55/100W bulb, which made very little difference. The wheels were resprayed and all the threads were helicoiled and fitted with stainless steel bolts. The bike looked very smart and attracted attention wherever it was parked. Cages moved out of way rapidly as soon as they heard the beast coming up behind them, a clear example of the safety advantages of Conti exhausts over the whisper quiet pipes of today.
I don't think the neighbours were too impressed with the bike's musical abilities, though it did a grand job as an early morning alarm call. Part of the starting procedure was to flood the carbs before kicking. The front carb at a 45 degree angle refused to flood, meaning the back pot started first, a series of deafening backfires followed before the front finally fired. It was then necessary to hold the throttle open until the engine was warm enough to tickover. Ducati obviously thought chokes were a waste of money.
Other quaint idiosyncrasies were the telepathic way the carbs knew if it was going to rain even with plastic bags over the bellmouths. Causing many amusing moments when trying to overtake only to find the engine had turned into an intermittent single. The lack of a sidestand meant parking on anything less than the horizontal was a dodgy exercise and in order to get at the oil filter cap the one-piece fairing had to be unbolted and dropped forward.
It may seem as if the Duke had nothing going for it, but the basic design was sound even if the finishing touches were lacking and it was excellent fun to ride. A couple of trips were very memorable. The first was a ride to Woolacombe for an annual four day karate seminar. I'd purposely left an hour after everyone else to see how long it would take to catch up. The normal route being to travel from Southampton to Salisbury and then do a left down the A303 to Taunton, from there follow the old A361 to Barnstable (the new A361 is dead boring whilst the old one is absolutely ace).
The preferred form of riding the Duke was to strap a sleeping bag to the tank and lay on it, thus taking the weight off the wrists - it's not until 80-90mph that wind pressure lifts you off the bars and even then not very much. I managed to catch my mates after about 60 miles and carried on through Taunton. If you ever get the chance to have a thrash down the old A361, or B3227 as it's now known, then go for it - the mixture of bends, hairpins, scenery and pubs take some beating; as do the throttle and brakes! When the Devon council puts chevrons on a corner they mean it, so be warned.
The roads around Woolacombe aren't that bad, much fun was had taking female friends to and from Ilfracombe. Unfortunately the Duke wasn't very good as a rolling vibrator, unlike my Triumph which has been used to induce labour! The trip home was equally satisfying and was completed in two hours against the normal three and half hours. There's no other better way of spending a Sunday afternoon than thrashing a big vee twin. Well, maybe one other but that normally only lasts a few minutes.
I figured that taking the Duke over to the IOM for the TT races was a good idea. So, with me laying on the tank and a mate with a massive rucksack on the back, off we went. Once on the Island the rain started, but the superb atmosphere more than made up for it. Camping definitely wasn't the way to go, next time it's B and B or nothing. The Duke didn't think much of the weather either and suffered from a sticking throttle for most of the week. Always good for a laugh when shutting the throttle coming up to a sharp, wet corner and nothing happens. That's when I really appreciated the Brembo's and decent chassis.
Mad Sunday was a bit of a disappointment. The authorities kept the mountain circuit two way because of the thick fog. Madness! Monday saw the results of some riders over-enthusiasm displayed on Douglas prom, mostly in bin bags full of bent bits and a hopeful begging bucket. The trip home was made a lot more interesting by taking a wrong turn in Brum and ending up on the M1 instead of the M6. We stopped at the next services and found ourselves north of Oxford, so we took the A43, heading south. As time was getting on and my mate's complaints were increasing in volume and pitch - he had got the raw end of the deal, stuck on a seat that had turned to stone an hour ago with all the camping gear tied to his back and nothing to hang on to.
I would the throttle open and pegged the speed between 100 and 120mph. Going much faster didn't help as the wind blast hit the top of my helmet, forced my head back until I ended up with a thumping headache. We got back in time for last orders at our firm's club, which went a small way towards killing the pain. The combination of excessive weight and throttle abuse had comprehensively knackered the chain, the rear shocks and tyres. Consumables were replaced and the shocks rebuilt with new oil and seals for £2. Marzocchis are very easy to strip down and seals are available from most bearing factors at a tenth of the dealer's cost.
Once used to the available performance I began to suspect that there was something wrong with the engine. I was relieved of £400 for an engine strip, revealing a multitude of sins. Wrong sized exhaust gaskets, valve clearances miles out and worn bores and valve guides. Fortunately, I got away with honing the bores and fitting new rings and valve guides, plus a rebuild - it was as good as new.
A rev limit of 4000 was stuck to for 500 miles, after which a noticeable increase in power was happily exploited. Top speed was roughly 130mph - the Veglia clocks tended to tell lies, damn lies and bullshit above 100mph.
All was happy in my world until evasive action was needed to avoid a dopy git in a Morris Minor. Shutting the throttle from a relatively high speed resulted in a loud clang from the engine. I pulled in the clutch and coasted for a while until I'd built up enough courage to let it out again. The engine happily thumping away as if nothing had happened. I then noticed a plume of smoke from the right-hand exhaust that would make any two stroke owner envious. An engine strip revealed that the front pot valve had momentarily seized in the guide...the desmo cams kept the valve moving but the oil seal was demolished. A new valve and guide needed.
The Ducati was a brilliant machine for weekend thrashes along A and B roads or through the New Forest which is on our doorstep. If I'd been three or four inches taller the Duke might've been a more comfortable bike. As it was I felt as if I was a jockey on a racing horse. A friend of a friend resprayed all the GRP bits and I spent several hours polishing the alloy and chrome. When it was back together it looked brand new, ready for MCN. I put it in for £2500 and the hordes of buyers waving money at me were conspicuous by their absence. A chap came up from Torquay and would have handed the dosh over straight away but I made him have a test ride just to make sure he fitted the machine okay.
At the start of the summer of '95 I went to look over a new style 900SS. This time I could get both feet flat on the floor, the riding position was relatively comfortable and the bike's so small and light I felt as if I was on a 250. At the start of one of the hottest summers this century I handed over £5500 for a J reg SS. 2000 miles later I'm as happy as a pig in shit. Lower back pain still rears its ugly head after two hours and the clutch is a pain both in the wrist and for pulling away off the line. It's also too quiet, all of which will be sorted as and when funds allow.
Buying any Ducati isn't the most rational thing in the world, but if you want something a bit different that also delivers plenty of grins per mile it's the only way to go.
Keith Wilson