By: Jeff Hughes
It’s a spectacularly-beautiful day. On the cusp of Summer, with all that
entails, and we’re not a handful of miles outside of Germantown when it strikes
me that here is the real deal. There are lots of elevation changes on this
route and, especially on the hilly ascents where the dozen-odd Italian twins I’m
riding with go deep into their throttles, the booming cacophony which they leave
trailing behind them, like sparkling aural jewels, is profoundly stirring. One
feels part of the pantheon, at speed and with prejudice, coursing through the
land. No disrespect to that other-named Rolling Thunder, the one that
memorializes some really important things. But this one includes rather more of
the rolling part, to go with the thunder.
The temperature still hasn’t broken 60 when I leave Warrenton at 7am. The
GSX-R1000 doesn’t leave much room for storage and as I ride my freezing ass
north on rt. 15 I’m thinking the K1200RS might have been a better choice. Ah,
for those heated grips and saddlebags – with the warm layers they might
contain. BMW’s will spoil you.
But by the time I stop an hour later at Point of Rocks it’s turning really
nice. Like I knew it would. And by the time I finish the couple of donuts I
had stored in my tail pack I’m feeling warm again. The rest of the day will
bring nothing but pleasantness.
Back in the saddle, the sun-dappled farm country exudes promise. Past the
little hamlets of Tuscaroa, Dickerson, Beallsville, and Barnesville. This is a
perfect morning, through beautiful country. And to enjoy it all on a fast
motorcycle seems like the best thing in the world.
I’ve never been to Germantown before, but finding the Starbucks is not hard.
I’m here to ride with MAD – The Mid-Atlantic Ducati Owners' Club. The promise of
riding some new roads I’ve not seen before is the draw. I’ve not ridden much in
Maryland and I figured that if anyone has sorted the good roads there it would
be the Ducati boys. Mike Wheeler, the club president, has kindly extended an
invitation to ride with them. That, despite the fact that I’m one of those
unwashed heathens, riding a Suzuki.
As I expected, this is a serious crowd, with serious hardware. Mostly Ducatis,
with a lone Aprilia, a Kawasaki, and an Italian cousin to the Ducati – a Cagiva.
Mike Cecchini, whom I recognize from his article on the MAD web site describing
his ride with Doug Polen, rolls up on an old R90S – the first BMW that I was
ever smitten with. Jeez, was it really that long ago? And El Presidente, in a
gesture I’m sure intended to make my Gixxer feel welcome, rolls in on another
Suzuki – a GS500, no less. Hell, Mike, you didn’t have to do that!
The thing I’ve always found compelling about Ducati is the way they so
seamlessly combine form and function. The one follows the other in a graceful
symmetry which is less and less seen anymore. In a world increasingly devoid of
substance, where the flash of how something looks seems to take precedence over
everything else, Ducati still engineer their products with an emphasis on doing
a single, serious thing really well. The fact that they are able to do that and
still incorporate such enchanting lines must be something uniquely and
mystically Italian. Almost like if your crusty old math teacher had looked like
Brittany Spears.
I think they require a different mind set than most other bikes. More
involvement. Less judgement. Like that high-maintenance mistress that seems
like such a pain in the ass, but then who, right when you’ve decided to bag the
whole thing, does something which reminds you why you ever bothered in the first
place. Reminds you that you’re alive.
[Note to wife: The preceding paragraph is, ahem, a bit of journalistic
license, probably ill-advised, and has no basis in fact. Really.]
My favorite is Chad’s (?) Dark Duck, an ebony 916 with chrome wheels. Partly
because I have a thing for the 4-valvers. I still think the series which began
with the 916 are the most beautiful motorcycles ever built. You would think
that after all these years the look would become tiresome or jaded, but somehow
it doesn’t. Partly because he had this big ole balled-up patch running the
circumference of the right side of his rear tire. Me thinks Dark Duck has been
on a racetrack sometime recently, one with a lot of hard rights. And I like
racetracks.
Leaving Germantown, we lose no time in getting up to speed. I’m quickly
laughing to myself and wondering how we’ll not get a ticket – or get thrown in
jail. I’ve slotted myself mid-pack and figure the guys up ahead know where
we’re going and what the deal is. This is their road. And this group rocks!
I’m always a little apprehensive about riding with a group of strangers. Either
the pace is boringly tepid. Or, worse, people are riding over their heads
trying to keep up with a buddy, or trying to match some mythical notion of
performance. The sometimes-resulting carnage can quickly turn what should be a
favored time into a dark and depressing event. But there are no such problems
here. These guys are talented riders and our spirited pace through the
countryside is well-tempered with good judgement.
Excepting the western portion, I’ve never much though of Maryland as having
really great riding roads. Boy was I wrong! Other than that we end up in
Thurmont, and hence are running a somewhat northwestwardly course, I haven’t a
clue as to where we are. We make turn after turn and, I’m guessing, must be
riding a host of different routes. Flying across much open countryside, swiftly
dispatching the traffic we encounter, then buzzing quickly through many little
towns, we make rapid progress across the state.
The many turns and elevation changes sometimes give an Isle of Mann kind of
feel, with the rapidly-developing corners requiring a deft touch on the bars.
I’m glad to be following riders who know this course. I can only imagine how
long it must take to learn it. Very much like those 37 miles on that Irish
Isle.
My favorite road is a long downhill section, somewhere near Thurmont. As per
standard practice, our freight train is flowing smoothly around any traffic we
encounter. Double-yellow passes are de rigueur. This particular road
seems little more than a series of asphalt whoop-de-doos. Even at constant
throttle one would be hard-pressed to keep one’s bike on the road. All those
little bounces seem determined to send us airborne. As we pull out to make our
pass I’m obviously using a little extra throttle to gain some acceleration, but
am having to modulate it really carefully because the Gixxer feels like
it’s going to launch. I’m laughing all the way down the hill.
Soon we stop for a long, leisurely lunch. A good time to kick back and relax.
Afterwards our group breaks up, with folks choosing different routes back to
their desired destinations. I decide to cruise back south on rt. 15, which gets
me back to Virginia in short order. Time enough to spin a quick detour over
through Thornton Gap before heading on home for that cold one.
Thanks guys. I appreciate your letting me tag along. It was a great ride!