#Trizzle-sTake

My taste in vehicles is a little strange. When it comes to bikes, I dig the latest and the greatest. However, when it comes to cars, give me the old stuff. In fact, besides my beater pick-up truck I use to haul bikes around, and my wife’s cushy sedan, my four-wheel collection consists of not one, but two, Datsun 510s. Both with only two doors. Both built in 1971. And both not currently running. Sigh.

Having the chance to partake in our recent 3 Wheeler shootout, I was fortunate enough to pilot three very different machines. Two of which, let’s face it, are basically cars with one rear wheel. Apart from the obvious fun we were having romping on the different “motorcycles,” what I distinctly remember was the ease at which I was willing to explore the limits of the Morgan 3 Wheeler and the Polaris Slingshot, the former void of any electronic aids, the latter with switchable stability control (the Spyder F3 stability system is always on).

On Tuesday, October 28, the world lost Henry Duga. The victim of an apparent heart attack, the loss came as an unexpected shock to all who knew him. Duga was 66 years old.

This might ruffle some feathers, but when I think of an all-American form of motorsport, I think drag racing (sorry NASCAR fans). In this land of excess and consumption, what’s more Americana than 500 cubic inch big blocks drinking 11.2 gallons of nitro-methane per second, pumping out massive amounts of horsepower (top fuel dragsters make in excess of 8000 horses!), and clearing the quarter mile in under 4.5 seconds at over 300 mph. It’s impressive stuff. Add in the one-on-one competition between two drivers/riders and the emotional highs and lows that come from victory or defeat, and you have a drama-packed event with non-stop action. I mean, have you been to an NHRA drag race before? It’s intense.

The little bottle of lube was the first sign things were different. Then the lack of any noticeable gears, ratchets or levers was another. “What the hell do I do with this thing?!” I thought to myself. Realizing I might be in for a tougher challenge than I expected, I broke the first rule of the Guy Code. I read the manual.

No disrespect to Dani Pedrosa, but I was really hoping Marc Marquez was going to win the Czech round of the MotoGP championship this past weekend. It would have been his 11th win in a row, a record-breaking achievement, surpassing none other than Giacomo Agostini. More to the point, it would have strengthened my argument about the 2014 MotoGP season so far: the racing has been kinda boring. It’s not Marc’s fault; the kid is amazingly talented and will surely receive Hall of Fame status when he eventually hangs up his leathers. Sure, the resurgent Rossi has been inspiring to watch, and other riders (Pedrosa, Lorenzo, Dovizioso, Aleix Espargaro) have shown flashes of brilliance, but c’mon, at the end of the day, we all know Marquez is going to wrap this thing up.

I don’t have any tattoos. Nothing against them, not even worried about needles. Nope, I suppose I’ve just never felt strongly enough about anything to have it permanently inked into my skin. Oh, I’ve come close before. For maybe the past eight years or so I’ve often had this recurring thought about inking myself with a design that pays homage to my Indonesian ancestry, but alas, I’ve never gone through with it. Whether it was a lack of funds, a change of heart, or simply putting it off, the design never made it onto my body.

Here at MO, we like to think of ourselves as early adopters of electric propulsion for motorcycles. We’ve published several road tests of e-bikes, even as far back as 1998 with the EMB Lectra Electric Motorcycle. Admittedly, that bike was more a toy than motorcycle, but even then, we understood it was a glimpse into the future. Fast forward 16 years to our most recent e-bike test, where we pit a Zero FX against a Suzuki DR-Z400SM and the e-bike actually beats its gasoline-powered counterpart. Talk about progress.

The Isle of Man TT officially began two days ago, and from now until June 6 the grandest spectacle of two-wheeled sport will captivate viewers and race fans for yet another year. Personally, I love the TT. The grandeur of racing through the town of Douglas, with the sight of walls, homes and pubs whizzing past at triple-digit speeds is exciting in a way few who have never ridden a motorcycle will ever know. 

Two weeks ago I attended the Grand Prix of the Americas, at the Circuit Of The Americas in Austin, Texas. It was my first time going to Austin, my first time at the track, but not my first time attending a MotoGP race. However, this time was different. For once, I didn’t have a media credential. I didn’t have to wake up early, dart to the track, setup shop in the media room, and watch the action from a television screen 100 yards away from where it was all happening.

There’s nothing like racing to get the competitive juices flowing. In that moment, it’s just you, your motorcycle, and a grid full of other gladiators waiting to do battle. Success is sweet as you reap all the rewards. Conversely, any mistake is entirely on your shoulders.