The Thruxtonian

Marco Simoncelli 1987 - 2011

2011-10-24T10:09:00.001+02:00

It was with shock and disbelief that I heard the news that Marco “SuperSic” Simoncelli lost his life during the Malaysian Grand Prix at the Sepang track, in one of those freak racing accidents that shouldn’t happen, when his out-of-control bike crossed the path of Colin Edwards’ Yamaha and the Ducati ridden by his close friend Valentino Rossi. “Sic” was just 24 years of age.

I won’t go into the details of the accident: I’m sure that, like myself, you have all seen photographs and videos of the collision. They left me deeply shocked and terribly upset. Instead I’ll just say a few words about Simoncelli.

Marco Simoncelli was a flamboyant, larger-than-life character who – literally – stood head and shoulders above almost everyone else in the MotoGP paddock, instantly recognisable by his extravagant Afro-style hairdo, which quickly earned him the affectionate nickname of “Sideshow Bob” amongst fans, due to a certain resemblance to the character of that name in the Simpsons. His hairstyle was not his only anachronism; he was wont to wear Jimi Hendrix T-shirts in a world in which many young riders and fans alike might not even be able to name or recognise a single song by that revolutionary guitarist. He seemed to have a liking for the era of the Seventies.

This was also reflected in his riding style. He quickly gained notoriety and a reputation as a bad boy for his unforgiving, aggressive, no-holds-barred riding, having no hang-ups in swapping fairing stickers with rivals in risky overtakes that drew the wrath of other riders and of journalists (in both cases, mainly the Spanish contingent), culminating in a coming-together with Spaniard Dani Pedrosa at the French Grand Prix in Le Mans earlier this season, which earned him a talking to from FIM and DORNA officials and required that he be escorted at all times by armed bodyguards during the Catalunya Grand Prix (he apparently received death threats prior to the race at the track outside Barcelona).

Personally I think that Simoncelli’s riding style was a breath of fresh air in MotoGP. In the years since the (re)introduction of four-stroke machines, overtakes have become rather tame and almost insipid, with many riders waiting until they can make a clean pass, and usually applying Jorge Lorenzo’s maxim of “por fuera” (round the outside). The cheeky and opportunistic win-or-bust lunge down the inside that one saw so much of in years gone by has almost become an obscene gesture. And Marco loved sticking two fingers up at the establishment.

Off the track, Simoncelli was a jovial, good-natured and – in close friend Valentino Rossi’s words – “sweet” guy, always ready to stop to have a quick chat with a fan, pose for a couple of photos and sign a few autographs. He was always game for a laugh and a joke, and his general bonhomie made it clear that his aggressive riding was not born of spite, but that it was just the way he envisaged the sport; after all this is motorcycle racing we’re talking about, not a Sunday matinée thé dansant!

It is such a shame that fate has taken Marco away from us in such an untimely manner, because it was so glaringly obvious that the best was yet to come from this lovable, brash, big-hearted Renaissance man of a rider: I am of the opinion that next season he would really have shone on the slightly more down-to-earth 1,000cc bikes. But – alas! – we shall never know…

I would like to finish by addressing my sincerest condolences and sympathy to Marco Simoncelli’s family and friends, as well as to the Honda Gresini San Carlo team and the entire MotoGP paddock. I also have a thought for the town of Cattolica, which has just lost one of its greatest sons.

Addio, Sic! Resterai sempre nel nostro cuore…

Book Review: "Big Sid's Vincati. The story of a Father, a Son and the Motorcycle of a Lifetime"

2011-09-19T17:06:00.000+02:00

Very few “motorcycle” books ever get published, and when they do, they often go unnoticed, gathering dust in the more obscure and out-of-the-way shelves in bookshops. “Big Sid’s Vincati. The Story of a Father, a Son and the Motorcycle of a Lifetime” is just one of those books.

The main protagonist of Vincati is “Big” Sid Biberman, an ageing mountain of a man whose claim to fame is that of having been one of the foremost North American experts on tuning Vincent motorcycles. The book, written by his son Matthew Biberman (a professor of creative writing and literature at Louisville University) opens at the side of Big Sid’s hospital bed, as he waits to undergo emergency open-heart surgery after having suffered a serious heart attack. He has apparently lost the will to live and, on the spur of the moment, his son comes up with a plan to build one of motorcycling’s rarer exotic hybrids, a Vincati.

At this juncture I should perhaps pause and explain what a Vincati is. Put simply it is a Vincent engine bolted into a – fairly modified – Ducati 750 GT frame. As such it is one of those creations that give Vincent enthusiasts and Ducati cognoscenti apoplexy attacks. You can’t buy one of these motorcycles over the counter, so they are usually the fruit of a slightly zany mechanic’s hard toil in his home workshop.

Right, back to the book. Saying that this is just a motorcycle book would be over-simplifying it altogether. True, bikes run through it on every page, but there is more to it than that. It is in fact an account of how a father and son who have grown apart come together and learn to coexist – pretty much for the first time in their lives – thanks to the creation of the mythical Vincati, which in itself leads to the father coming out of retirement and resuming his trade with help from his son.

In so doing, the author goes back over his father’s life: an unhappy childhood under the thumb of a tyrannical father with little or no paternal spirit; his teenage years and discovery of motorcycles in general and Vincents in particular; his Army years, during which he treads hallowed ground – the Vincent works in Stevenage, England; and finally his adult life, first running his father’s butcher shop, then setting up a bike shop and gaining renown as a tuner.

At the same time, and in parallel to this, Matthew Biberman charts his own life, and the way that – despite a shared love of motorcycles – he and his father became estranged, mainly due to the fact that the author was a bit gauche with a spanner in his hand, and the way in which they finally come to peaceful terms with each other, as Big Sid grudgingly allows his son to assist him in restoring various Vincents as they both amass the funds to pour into the Vincati project.

Despite the distinct smell of petrol and the oily finger-marks on the pages (the author himself speaks of giving lectures reeking of petrol and with grimy fingernails), this is definitely a book that can appeal to readers who are not motorcycling enthusiasts, somewhat like the legendary “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance”. Unlike that tome, however it does not delve into mysticism, and stays firmly in the real world. Yet diehard motorcyclists won’t be disappointed: there’ enough talk of motorcycle rides, crashes, near-misses, and mechanics – and at the end of the book, Matthew Biberman has thoughtfully included the complete technical specifications of the Vincati.

Although it doesn’t have the gonzo-journalism punch of Hunter S. Thompson’s “Hell’s Angels”, the adventure of Ted Simon’s “Jupiter’s Travels” or the mystical aura of the aforementioned “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” by Robert Persig, “Big Sid’s Vincati” is a very enjoyable book that is at once moving, funny and down-to-earth.

On this day, ten years ago...

2011-09-11T18:02:00.001+02:00

On 11th September 2001, the world changed forever. I remember turning on the television, and briefly seeing a plane hitting a tall building and thinking "oh, must be some scene from a new action film", then suddenly realising that what I was seeing was real and happening on the other side of the world in real time... I don't remember how many of the following hours I spent glued to my television screen, but it must have been quite a few, I'm sure.

They say that a picture is worth a thousand words. For me, there is one image above all others that sums that terrible event up for me. I don't know who took the photo, so I cannot give credit where it is due. May the owner of the photo's rights therefore forgive me for publishing it here at this time.

I will take this time to pay my respects to all the innocent people who died in New York, in the Pentagon and on the airliner that crashed in Pennsylvania, and also to the members of the NYPD, FDNY and New York Port Authority Police who selflessly put their lives at risk to try to get as many survivors out of that inferno.

Rest in Peace...

2011-09-11T12:58:00.000+02:00

For a few years I was an active member of an unofficial Spanish Triumph Owners' Club (Club Triumph España) until divergences with a small faction of its members prompted me to terminate my association with the club. However, in doing so I left behind a good few friends whose company I enjoyed; over the years I have kept more or less abreast of club life at a distance, as an exile, as it were.

Yesterday evening, whilst perusing Facebook, a message appeared on my wall, posted by a member of the club who I still see from time to time. The contents of the message moved me greatly.

During this year's Club Anniversary Weekend run, one of the members lost his life. It would appear that as the convoy of bikes approached an intersection, the driver of a car that was waiting to enter the flow of traffic decided that he wasn't going to wait for the entire convoy to pass before joining the road. He therefore attempted to thread his car through a slight gap between two motorcycles, forcing everybody to take evasive action. The deceased rider was unfortunately unable to avoid hitting the car head-first, and died pretty much instantly.

The fallen rider leaves behind a wife and two adult daughters. I'm an atheist, so I will not offer up a prayer (nor will I ask anybody to do so - that is up to you), but I would like to extend my condolences to his family, friends, and to the members of the Club Triumph España, particularly those who were unfortunate enough to witness this tragic event. "Motosalsa" as he was known, is now riding free on the eternal run in the sky.

L&R

Shame on you, Nissan!

2011-09-06T19:40:00.000+02:00

Earlier today, a rather disturbing commercial for the Nissan "Juke" was brought to my attention. It revolted me to such a degree that I instantly started posting complaints on Facebook and Twitter, and posting the commercial to the various internet motorcycling fora of which I am a member.

Afte a while, the webmaster of the TriumphTorque.com forum (an unofficial Triumph owners' forum that is in no way linked directly to Triumph Motorcycles Ltd.) was able to confirm that the commercial originated from Nissan Canada. I promptly fired off a complaint to their customer service. I will be monitoring their reply to my letter of complaint and reporting upon it here on The Thruxtonian. Depending upon the way in which they handle the matter, I will decide whether or not to pursue the matter further, perhaps even in a court of law.

Here is the offending (offensive, even) commercial:

If you wish to complain about the commercial, you can contact Nissan Canada HERE

Once more unto the breach...

2011-09-05T18:07:00.000+02:00

As you know, this blog is a one-man-show that I do on my own time (and just sometimes taking a few moments off my work). As such, it is subject to the demands of my professional schedule. It is also subject to the effects of my personal life and, since my last article in March of this year, this latter aspect of my life has been in somewhat of a turmoil for various reasons that I will not enter into here. Suffice it to say that I lost interest in maintaining The Thruxtonian and preferred to direct my energy and resources towards other ends. Indeed, I had intended to let this blog wither away and disappear into the forgotten meanders and interstices of the internet.

I have however changed my mind on this point and, despite the fact that my life - in both its professional and personal aspects - has not yet got to where I would like it to be, I am pleased to announce that The Thruxtonian rides again.

For this new stage in its existence, I will endeavour to make the blog possibly bigger and certainly better. Notwithstanding, to a certain extent it will continue to be at the mercy of my professional and personal life, but although the journey may be sometimes erratic, I will attempt to ensure that you, the readers, will be informed of any temporary interruptions. And of course, I reserve the right to pull the plug at any time. Life will always be more important than a blog.

It's nice to be back...

regards,

The Thruxtonian

Coming soon to The Thruxtonian

2011-03-25T18:12:00.000+01:00

At the moment, The Thruxtonian's offices are a hive of activity. We will shortly be bringing you our first ever road test, with a report on the Triumph Tiger 800 including an onboard video (which means getting to grips with Apple's "iMovie" editing software); we will also have product reviews of Belstaff's iconic Trialmaster jacket and GoPro's Hero HD onboard video camera.

Working overtime at The Thruxtonian...

Looking further ahead, we will be bringing you road tests of the Harley Davidson Nightster and the Ducati Diavel, amongst other things.

Of course, since all of this work is done after day jobs and other such professional obligations have been seen to, this does take quite some time. But we guarantee that everything will be well worth the wait. So don't touch that dial, as they used to say!

I couldn't say it any better myself...

2011-03-18T11:31:00.000+01:00

This wonderful little text came to my attention yesterday. I have no idea who the author is, apart from the fact that he (or perhaps she, who knows?) is American (the spelling of some words points that way). I have therefore decided to leave the text practically untouched (see the footnote), American spelling and all. If you know who might have written these words, please tell me by leaving a comment. That way I will be able to duly credit the author. Now, over to the "unknown motorcyclist".

There is cold, and there is cold on a motorcycle. Cold on a motorcycle is like being beaten with cold hammers while being kicked with cold boots, a bone bruising cold. The wind's big hands squeeze the heat out of my body and whisk it away; caught in a cold October rain, the drops don't even feel like water. They feel like shards of bone fallen from the skies of Hell to pock my face. I expect to arrive with my cheeks and forehead streaked with blood, but that's just an illusion, just the misery of nerves not designed for highway speeds.

Despite this, it's hard to give up my motorcycle in the fall and I rush to get it on the road again in the spring; lapses of sanity like this are common among motorcyclists. When you let a motorcycle into your life you're changed forever. The letters "MC" are stamped on your driver's license right next to your sex and weight as if "motorcycle" was just another of your physical characteristics, or maybe a mental condition. But when warm weather finally does come around all those cold snaps and rainstorms are paid in full because a summer is worth any price.

A motorcycle is not just a two-wheeled car; the difference between driving a car and climbing onto a motorcycle is the difference between watching TV and actually living your life.

We spend all our time sealed in boxes and cars are just the rolling boxes that shuffle us from home-box to work-box to store-box and back, the whole time, entombed in stale air, temperature regulated, sound insulated, and smelling of carpets.

On a motorcycle I know I'm alive. When I ride, even the familiar seems strange and glorious. The air has weight and substance as I push through it and its touch is as intimate as water to a swimmer. I feel the cool wells of air that pool under trees and the warm spokes of sunlight* that fall through them. I can see everything in a sweeping 360 degrees, up, down and around, wider than Pana-Vision and than IMAX and unrestricted by ceiling or dashboard. Sometimes I even hear music. It's like hearing phantom telephones in the shower or false doorbells when vacuuming; the pattern-loving brain, seeking signals in the noise, raises acoustic ghosts out of the wind's roar.

But on a motorcycle I hear whole songs: rock 'n roll, dark orchestras, women's voices, all hidden in the air and released by speed. At 30 miles per hour and up, smells become uncannily vivid. All the individual tree- smells and flower-smells and grass-smells flit by like chemical notes in a great plant symphony.

Sometimes the smells evoke memories so strongly that it's as though the past hangs invisible in the air around me, wanting only the most casual of rumbling time machines to unlock it. A ride on a summer afternoon can border on the rapturous. The sheer volume and variety of stimuli is like a bath for my nervous system, an electrical massage for my brain, a systems check for my soul.

It tears smiles out of me: a minute ago I was dour, depressed, apathetic, numb, but now, on two wheels, big, ragged, windy smiles flap against the side of my face, billowing out of me like air from a decompressing plane.

Transportation is only a secondary function. A motorcycle is a joy machine. It's a machine of wonders, a metal bird, a motorized prosthetic. It's light and dark and shiny and dirty and warm and cold lapping over each other; it's a conduit of grace, it's a catalyst for bonding the gritty and the holy. I still think of myself as a motorcycle amateur, but by now I've had a handful of bikes over half a dozen years and slept under my share of bridges. I wouldn't trade one second of either the good times or the misery. Learning to ride one of the best things I've done.

Cars lie to us and tell us we're safe, powerful, and in control. The air-conditioning fans murmur empty assurances and whisper, "Sleep, sleep." Motorcycles tell us a more useful truth: we are small and exposed, and probably moving too fast for our own good, but that's no reason not to enjoy every minute of the ride.

-Author unknown.

* In the text as it came to me, this word was missing; given the context, I feel that this is the best way to fill the gap - ed.

Spain slows down

2011-02-28T09:48:00.000+01:00

Just days after the new regional government of Catalonia announced that it was scrapping the previous administration's "variable speed" measure, which effectively limited speed on motorways in a 20 km radius around Barcelona to 80 kph (but could bring it down to as low as 20 kph if deemed necessary...), at the end of last week the central Spanish government announced that it was going to impose a blanket speed limit of 110 kph on all motorways and dual carriageways as of 7th March.

This sign now belongs to the past...

The reasons given by the government are the bid to carry out large-scale fuel savings and concerns about fuel supply in view of the political and social unrest in the Arab world. On examination both reasons seem rather laughable. First of all, modern cars (and motorbikes, for that matter) don't burn that much fuel when they're cruising along at 120 kph in top gear, which means that the supposed fuel savings obtained by dropping the speed to 110 kph (68 mph) are so slight that they won't make much difference in the medium term, which is how most government plans work.

Secondly, Spain gets a fair amount of its petrol from sources outside the Arab world, mainly in South America, so it isn't the current state of affairs in Libya that's going to make a noticeable dent in the availability of petrol at the Spanish pump. But as Spain has a very deep-seated love-hate relationship with all things Arab, waving an Arab scarecrow around is sure to galvanise the masses and inject the necessary dose of jingo serum to help the average José swallow the pill.

In fact, the real reason behind the measure is twofold. Firstly it is designed to put paid to the vocal minority of road users in the country who have been clamouring for motorway speeds to be raised to 130 kph, as in Spain's neighbour to the north, France. Secondly, it is just another measure by the Dirección General de Tráfico (Spain's traffic authority) to be able to fine and cull points from more road users. Once again, par for the course.

In view of this measure, here at The Thruxtonian we will no longer be using Spanish motorways, since we don't see the point of paying tolls to drive barely faster than on a Carretera Nacional (the Spanish equivalent of British A-roads). As for all of you who might be driving in Spain on holiday or for business, remember that the traffic police will be enforcing this rule mercilessly over the next few months.

Spring is in the air

2011-02-20T20:30:00.000+01:00

At the moment, my professional life is a whirl. Hardly did I return from my skiing holiday that I was snowed under with work, which seems to be par for the course for me. And today, although I had a substantial workload to deal with, I decided to take the old girl out for a spin and actually have a normal Sunday: i.e. not working.

I chose my destination very much at the last moment, and decided to go down to the "Mas del Plata" residential estate, which is some 40 kilometres or so inland from Tarragona. My aim wasn't to go house hunting, but instead to visit a landmark that has made this estate famous the world over for Anime fans: a 15 metre high resin and fibreglass statue of Mazinger Z (for those of you who are unfamiliar with Japanese anime series of the Seventies, read this and all will be explained: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mazinger_Z - ed.). When I set out from home, the weather didn't look very promising, but by the time I peeled off the motorway at El Vendrell, there was hardly a grey cloud in the sky, and there was a promise of a fine day.

As I took to the back roads towards my destination, I remembered that I would be passing not far away from another curious landmark: the Sanctuary of Montferri, a small chapel built just before the Spanish Civil War and aimed to celebrate two of Catalonia's great treasures: the mountain of Montserrat and the architect Antoni Gaudí. So I took to an even smaller back road and finally arrived in the car park, to find myself surrounded by coach loads of OAPs.

I had to scare the blue-rinse brigade away for this one!