It was the spring of ’85 and I was obsessed with getting a Duke. "Ducati 900, £1650," read the advert unhelpfully, but a phone call was promising. It was, in fact, a Darmah with a Hailwood replica engine. One look was enough for me, the engine offered 130mph, near on 50mpg and the set-up avoided the nose on the tank business of the pseudo production racers. I can remember telling the seller that I could live with this and how lovely it was and was he sure that was all he wanted for it.
Well, not quite that bad but near enough. The seller explained the bike's provenance. It had started life as a Darmah until the engine was written off, something vaguely to do with the drive chain disintegrating with nasty and expensive consequences for everything in the vicinity. The bike was repossessed by the dealer who happened to have a written off Hailwood replica with engine intact, bunged one into the other, treated the product to a brilliant red/green paint job and punted it out to the seller's mate. He emigrated so passed it on to the seller, who being basically a BSA rider with a house to renovate and a boat to build eventually sold it to me.
There was no electric boot, but the, new to me, mystical process of clutch freeing, carb tickling, throttle twisting, hefty swinging with glorious sound exploding that would have stolen the devil’s soul. Resistance appeared futile. I looked hard for faults but found none that didn’t sound as lame as the 40000 mile Honda FT500 I was desperately trying to offload elsewhere.
I returned at the weekend for a test ride and artfully brought along Sid. Most people know "Sid." A congenital Jeremiah and fluent bullshitter with arcane knowledge of motorcycle foibles rivalled by a seemingly infinite and perverse imagination. His watchword was obloguy. His role to scowl over suddenly discovered terminal flaws and heap the whole venture with a disdainful laden prophesy of exploding cranks, horrendous Desmo servicing rituals, bevel gears, broken cogs, slipping and dragging clutches, dodgy electrics... you get the picture.
Sadly Sid didn’t. He was worse than usual, worse than useless. The Ducati hallmark is brutal seduction, proof against a generation of Sids. He seemed as captivated as me. The test ride was strangely familiar, a case of the reality matching the myth. You never force her down, just think of lean and she goes with you. The engine has been described as a well oiled sewing machine. That sounds wrong unless you think of turning your old girl’s Singer, that sound and feel of closely meshing gears and close tolerance machinery.
The flat syllabic hiss from the 40mm Dellortas was the perfect complement to the burumph, burumph of the exhaust. I was reduced to bemoaning the lack of mirrors and missing centrestand. A few wimpish worries loudly expressed about bore wear from open carbs was enough to knock £50 off and the deal was struck.
By rights, and by UMG tradition, there should now follow a litany of woe, regret and expense. Well it doesn’t. The Ducati would prefer 120mph under sunny skies to 20 in wet dark misery - who wouldn't - but it could and did handle both. Yes, the switchgear was as bad as you've heard before. They like to put the light switch next to the dim so you have to sort out exactly where what is before you go blind into the next corner.
The charging system was inadequate in winter with the headlamp in use. This meant I sometimes spluttered to a halt in cold darkness, sweated over the kickstart and sometimes made it home. This may have been due to incompatibility between the Hailwood and Darmah electrical systems.
I bottled out of the Desmo valve adjustment after I realised the expense of getting it wrong. pa Capitol Motorcycles at Shepperton did the business very well at 8000 mile intervals. Clutch slip above 90mph started after a year, rather than fit stronger springs I fitted Sureflex plates which solved the problem. I changed the Silentium silencers for Contis and found them brilliant - traffic parted like the Red Sea as often as not and even the neighbours expressed appreciation.
The engine fired up first kick if you meant it, second if you thought you did the first time and 13th if you had an audience. A strong left wrist was quickly developed thanks to the heavy clutch. The way they mount the fusebox with the open end pointing down encouraged the fuses to either fall out or get soaked by water. The clutch lever return spring breaks after 5000 miles and the crank blows up if you don't use monograde SAE 50 in summer, SAE 40 in winter.
These few niggles were minor in comparison to the fun that could be had on the open road. I had the practical benefits of a comfortable riding position and marginally supple suspension, with the power of a tuned V-twin engine. Not that there was any lack of torque at the lower end of the rev range, but what a waste of the bike to commute through traffic, the beast seemed to strain to hit the open road.
Handling was typically Italian, stable in a straight line but needing a little effort to flick through the curves. Bumps and even potholes didn’t upset the plot. The gearbox needed a slow action and use of that heavy clutch. I only sold the bike because it was wasted, as I was using it mostly in town.
The chap who came to buy it, was accompanied by four friends and his sister but they were soon taken by the charm of the bike and ended up encouraging the new owner to hand over £1750 pronto. I even told him about the lack of steering lock, the relatively firm ride and heavy clutch, but it made no difference, he had to have it, just as I had. I do not know exactly why Ducatis have this effect, something between the visceral and venereal, but it’s always there. He said he would put in weaker clutch springs and add a mini fairing in the hope of civilizing the beast. That might not be a good idea.
Noel Durkin