Ducati Mach 1

There are some people who have never heard of a Ducati Mach 1 and there are some who have heard but never want to hear again - I come into the second category. Back in November 1965 I was in the RAF, had no transport, little money and less sense. My family lived 100 miles from camp, so having only a provisional licence I decided to buy the fastest 250 available for the odd weekend trip home.  I’d decided to buy new for reliability so the following Saturday I thumbed a lift to the nearest dealers in Oxford, clutching the few pounds I’d managed to save.

The choice boiled down to two bikes, a Honda CB72 (civilised but bland and heavy) or a Mach 1 (red, exciting and lean). The claimed top speed of 106mph (ho, ho) of the latter bike was the final selling point for me. Perhaps I should describe the Mach 1 at this point. Fire engine red, slim, light at about 285Ibs, a single cylinder 250cc four stroke with 10:1 compression ratio, gear and bevel driven OHC, 28hp, SLS brakes, no tacho but a 150mph speedo (that bit really impressed me), clip-ons, rear-sets, no pillion footrests. The history behind the bike was quite simple - Ducati merely diverted some from the race track, hung on the cheapest and most inefficient lights they could find and then flogged them to prats like me.

After I signed the HP forms and was ready to go, the dealer explained that the kickstart wasn’t really usable and only there to make the bike look complete - only to be used when asking unsuspecting friends if they’d like to have a go (he was right, the ignition was so far advanced that any attempt to use the lever would invariably result in a near fatal blow as it retaliated with a vengeance). Ten minutes later, blinded by sweat and face a funny colour, I’d just about got the hang of the staning technique. Into first gear, free the clutch, back on compression, fistful of throttle, run like a loony, leap up and sideways to bang down on the seat at exactly the same moment as dropping the clutch, left foot on the footrest and swing right leg over madly accelerating machine to stamp right-hand gearchange into second - and that’s it, you’re airborne.

The next trick to learn, as I left Oxford like a deranged jet-jockey, was to keep the revs up at all times; anything less than an estimated 2000rpm would result in an engine trying to rotate in the opposite direction, an undignified stop and yet another go at the dreaded starting technique. There was obviously only one way to ride this bike - bails out. Well, that's fine but at some point you gotta stop, right? This turned out to be the next problem (idiosyncrasy) with the Mach 1.

On careering round this bend, like a marauding missile, with a vicious grin as wide as the sky, I was confronted with firmly closed railway crossing gates. I wondered for a moment if I could just pull back on the bars and jump the gates (anything to avoid starting the soddin' thing again) but quickly sobered up and hit the good ol’ drums. Well, nothing much happened so I pulled a bit harder, and a bit harder... and stopped a few feet from the gates with the alloy front brake lever touching the twistgrip. Of course the engine stalled so I hauled the plot off to the side of the road, trying to give the impression that I’d planned to have a smoke break right there at the crossing gate. As soon as the gates opened and the traffic disappeared I got down to a close inspection of the brake lever to see if Ducati had inadvertently supplied me with a plasticine item, but, no, it appeared to be some sort of metal although, judging by the ridiculous ease with which I straightened it, it must have had a high lead content.

Starting the bike didn’t seem to be quite so hellish this time and l was already feeling leaner and fitter myself, so I was in good heart when I discovered the next problem (feature). I was now five miles further up the road and man and machine were as one, so to speak, as I came up to join the A40. The lights were against me so I snicked through the box to neutral - except it didn’t, it chose first instead. So I snicked (more of a clunk really) back to neutral - except it didn't, it chose second. The clutch was starting to drag so in mild panic I gingerly tried for neutral again the clunk changed to a kerrunch as it went straight through to first. The clutch was dragging so much that it was easing me through the red lights so I reluctantly let the engine die and once more hauled the plot off the road, trying to give the impression that I’d planned a smoke break at the traffic lights on the A40. This was not so easy to do as the back wheel was locked up and I must have looked like a clumsy bike thief.

Ten minutes later, the clutch cooled and, traffic lights timed to perfection, I roared off up the road almost back to base. I say almost because I was only half a mile from camp when, on a tight bend on a hill, the Pirellis let me know that they wouldn’t allow the same angle of lean as the rearset pegs would. After trying to give the impression that I always park my bike half-way through a hedge whilst having a quick smoke break, I finally made it back to base. I had nowhere to park the bike but out in the open outside the barrack block, so I left it there overnight while I had a couple of pints and a good nights sleep, apart from the nightmares.

The following morning I went outside to admire my gleaming steed - except it wasn‘t, gleaming I mean. The silencer and rims were already faintly pitted with rust and the chrome was actually peeling off the exhaust pipe as I stood there watching. That exhaust was to last less than six months before it was rusted right through. I made a decision there and then to ride the bike as far and as fast as I could in the shortest possible time because the way things looked before long I’d be making monthly payments on a small pile of oxide.

Starting the followng weekend I made regular trips to my father’s house in Nottingham, a distance of 100 miles each way. Typical journey time was one hour forty minutes, an average speed of 60mph. The first sixty miles was on the old Fosse Way - here’s where I loved the bike, sure-footed, responsive, almost an extension of my own body. Then into Leicester - here's where I hated the bike, sometimes stalling at every red light. Then out on the A46, back in love again. Into Nottingham - hate again. Out of Nottingham to my father’s house to arrive with very mixed emotions. The fuel consumption was always good news, though, a reliable 70-80mpg, never more but never less. Vibration was always present though never unbearable and only two or three things ever fractured or fell off. The riding position was just great on the open road, sheer purgatory in town.

It was on one of these trips home that I had an unusual experience. I normally travelled on a Friday night but this time it was a Saturday morning and the traffic out of Leicester was heavy and slow (ie 50mph in a 50 limit), so I decided to white-line to the head of the queue and make like a scalded cat. The first thing to do was to stand on the pegs and check behind for any dormant blue lights, which I did. Unfortunately, when I turned back to the front, I found that the traffic had slowed to a crawl and l was heading at 50mph for the back of a truck. With great presence of mind I promptly tested my underwear, whimpered, then dropped the bike under the tail-gate of the truck, sliding along under the diff towards the front axle. Fortunately, before I appeared on the road in front at what would have been a very startled truck driver, the traffic gathered pace and back I went under the diff to reappear again in front of the fortunately stationary traffic behind me. This time I couldn't pretend that it was my unique way of stopping for a break because l'd left the contents of my cigarette packet scattered down the road. I’d also left one at the Ducatis foot-rests in the road, so that necessitated riding the rest at the way home with one foot on the crankcase - not recommended on a bike that has a thinly disguised plank as a seat and rock hard suspension.

I'd had the bike tor some nine or ten months by then and chromium plate was just a cherished memory. As it happened, this didn‘t really matter as I was shortly to give up motorcycling for a while, although I had no feeling of impending doom at the time. The way it happened was this.

My girlfriend (later wife) was going home to her folks for the weekend and l was on duty at camp. Innocuous enough start but as we all know, when the cat’s away the mice will play. And so I did.

On the Saturday evening I thought that the RAF wouldn’t miss me for a couple of hours so I slipped quietly away - well, as quiet as you can on a Mach 1 - to visit another girl whose father owned a country pub (the perfect combination). The journey there, through Gloucester countryside, was pleasant but uneventful - apart from noting the pungent aroma of a field of kale as I took a left towards my destination. The evening in the pub seemed to consist of a laugh a minute coupled with several pints of scrumpy - although, to be perfectly honest, I don’t remember much of it now.

However, the journey back was a little different. It started well enough - I got the bike going nicely and settled down to a familiar rhythm - but I couldn't help but notice that a fair mist had settled and visibility was none too good. No problem, the young and stupid amongst us will say, just blast along until you smell kale and then hang a right. Which is exactly what I did - except that I never smelt the kale. I don’t know it it was the surfeit of scrumpy, the smoke in the pub or what, but I didn’t smell kale. So l wasn’t ready to hang a right. I was doing seventy and singing happily when all of a sudden out of the mist in front of me loomed a Cotswold stone wall.

I stood on everything, pulled on everything and just dropped the bike looking for maximum friction. The bike hit the wall and I hit the bike. It's awfully dark In the countryside at night. I pulled myself to my knees and just tried to breathe but all I could manage were little ik-or-ik-or noises. It would appear that I had stoved in my left ribs and I’d left half an inch of right buttock somewhere up the road. After five minutes of feeling sorry for myself I realised that I wasn’t going to get better just kneeling there, so I hauled myself to my feet and managed to drag the bike almost upright. The rear wheel was buckled but it could be moved so I set off painfully down the road.

Three cars came past me in the next five minutes but all gave me a wide berth on seeing the blood and mud, even though I did my best to flag them down. The fourth vehicle, a van driven by a biker, skidded to a half and hauled the bike and a collapsing rider into the back, administering first aid. Thank you, whoever you were, I’ve never forgotten.

At this point I had to give up biking and it took me 10 years to get the taste back. I sold the bike to a friend who was on the ground staff of the Red Arrows - he had fun trying to feed coloured dyes directly into the carb so he could make out like a low-flying Red Arrow, but all he succeeded in doing was to destroy the valves.

Would I buy another Mach 1? Nobody would dare produce such an uncivilised bike agaln. Would I buy another Ducati? I doubt It, but maybe their quality is better now. Have I grown up? I suppose so, I’ve had eight bikes in the last 12 years and haven’t dropped one yet. Did I ever get 106mph out of the bike? No, the best I managed was the ton. How did it compare with other bikes of the era? Good. It was evenly matched with my mate’s CB77 (305cc) and he was at least two stones lighter than me. Have I got a photograph of it? No - and I don’t want one!

Bill Clamp