 |
| | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| | Thread Tools | Search this Thread | Display Modes |
| #1  15-Oct-2004, 01:51 | ||||
| ||||
| Article - 900SS & TRX....Run for the Sun Couldn't help myself with this one, such a good article I thought I'd erm.......share it !!! I'll find an easier way to do it all one day....enjoy. =========================================== Two winter frozen Brits head for the sun in southern France: "Run for the sun. The hugely moustachioed Frenchman staggered out of the cafe, clutching a glass of lethal-looking Fastis, and commenced to drool over our delicious, blood-red 900SS: "Ooooh, Dooocati, this beautifool Ducaaaati. I rimembeur when I werz young.. .my friends, you want a beer, non?" Admittedly the imperious Duke was glowing in the midday sun, but Monsieur Le ****head's enthusiasm knew no bounds, and the scene became faintly amusing. "Ze looks, ze sounds, ooooh I leurve zer sound erf ze moteur...oooh, Ducaaaati, Dooocati," he blathered through a particularly smelly Gauloise fag. By this time wifey had appeared at the bar and was trying to coax her babbling hubby away. She eventually triumphed in coaxing the alcoholic lump into their Renault 5 and drove off, and the sound of marital bickering trailed into the distance. We in turn were left to return to the tranquillity of the sun-kissed market square in Serignan, a delightful, unspoilt coastal town near Montpellier in the South of France. Okay, so monsieur was ****ed, but he had a point. Like everyone else on our route down to the sun, he never so much as glanced at the Ducati's rival, our Yamaha TRX850. Functional and lumpy-looking, the TRX was destined to play second fiddle throughout our journey.  The trip hadn't started out so kindly for the 900, however. First, it got a mouthful when Scoey and I realised we might have to blat round France on the lethal, hard-compound Michelin M59 and A59 tyres the bike is sold with. That led to a panic search for decent rubber (Bridgestone came to the rescue with BT50s), which in turn led to an irritable Scoey giving the bike a kicking because the side stand flipped up every time he tried to tie down his throw-over panniers. We were both suffering winter blues and desperate to get the hell out of Britain. The last few months have been so miserable that we'd almost forgotten what real hiking is all about, so we set ourselves these objectives: • To seek out knee-down action • To scrub our tyres to their limits • To splatter our visors with insects • To grin like two maniacal Cheshire cats. Yes, a blast down to the South of France would break the doldrums and hopefully be an adventure to boot. The ride down to the dock was typically grey, damp and depressing. We decided to break the back of the journey by taking the P&O European Ferries' overnight crossing from Portsmouth to Le Havre. It gives you time to relax, cuts out the grim ride south from Calais, and plunges you straight into the heart and soul of France, with twisty roads, glorious cafes, Routiers restaurants and intriguing architecture. Our first day's riding was uneventful. Scoey complained of the bitter cold as we rode past the hard frost and ice that lined the roads down to Tours, but as the stupid ******* had refused my offer of an electrically-heated jacket, I maintained a callous smugness. We stopped in Tours for lunch and pressed on through the dull and the cold to Oradour-sur-Glane, near Limoges, for our first overnight stop. Neither bike felt in the least bit stretched by our 90mph cruising speed, but they coped differently: while the TRX loses its power pulses above 5000rpm and becomes almost too smooth, the 900SS retains an earthy, twin-cylinder thud right through the rev range. The Yamaha is also over-silenced, while the Ducati's booming exhaust note turns heads wherever it goes.  Anyone who's ever wondered what the Nazis did during the War should visit Oradour. On Saturday, June 10, 1944, a detachment of SS troops entered the town and rounded up the entire population under the pretext of an identity card check. The men were taken to various barns, the women and children to the church. At a given signal everyone was shot and then burned, and the town was looted and raised to the ground. To this day Oradour has been left untouched, as a reminder of this atrocity, and the survivors built a new town nearby. Walking through that awful, frozen moment in time, as the sun set and the evening shadows grew, was both eerie and harrowing. Even Scoey, who normally cannot stop talking, was left speechless. The following day we returned to the serious business of motorcycling. As we headed towards Brive the temperature edged up nicely, despite the dull skies, enough for us to hammer the bikes through the undulating twisties that lead past Rocamadour and down to Cahors. Shortly after Cahors, Scoey suddenly stopped, pulled off his helmet and handed it to me. Grinning in triumph. Yes, there on the visor was our first splattered fly. Things were definitely looking up. Our only concern were the numerous gendarmes and their radar traps, but those bike-friendly French motorists never failed to warn us of approaching trouble well in advance. The TRX's low centre of gravity and light, rapid steering made it easy to turn into bends, but the squishy shock all too easily upset my lines and the lack of weight over the front wheel made the machine feel almost twitchy. The real revelation came when Scoey and I swapped bikes - I'd forgotten what a wonderful machine the 900SS is, and such a contrast to the Yamaha. Slower steering, but with a beautifully-planted front end and far better controlled suspension, the Ducati easily outclassed the TRX through the twists and turns on those smooth French roads. It's not till you hit a bump that the oversprung Duke plays up.  The roads south of Cahors, through Montauban and Albi, were mundane compared to those further north, but after Castres we again hit the most fabulous sweepers which took us down to our next overnight stop in the quaint, medieval town of Cessenon-sur-Orb, near Beziers. Aaaaaaggggghhh! I can't remember when I last woke up to blue skies and real warmth. I pulled back my bedroom curtains and sunshine flooded through in divine appreciation of our efforts. All the grime, the bitter cold and the treacherous roads were behind us for the moment and we could now savour the delights of a very early summer. Scoey and I basked in our own cleverness, downed our breakfast of cafe au lait and croissants, and sped off down to Serignan beach. We were going to make the most of this one and went fully equipped for a spot of sunbathing with garish Hawaiian shorts and knotted handkerchief (me), and smelly underpants (Scoey). We spent the rest of the day being thoroughly laddish, scratching round some coastal roads, blitzing our knee sliders, and then disappearing into the hills above Cessenon.  The Ducati's suspension felt overly harsh on the bumpier back roads, which is where the Yamaha's softer suspension came into its own, but the 900SS again showed its superior handling ability on the smoothly-surfaced roads. It drives out of bends far more forcefully than the TRX (in the side-by-side top-gear roll-ons we did, the Ducati stomped all over the Yamaha). As evening arrived and the glowing rays of the setting sun bathed the hills in a deep red, Scoey and I retired to our hotel, where we discussed the bikes under the influence of a few beers. As les biers flowed, we decided that the Ducati is definitely the more honed machine, the thoroughbred, the most enjoyable. And while the Yamaha has all the 900's trappings - trellis frame and throbby power delivery - it's very much a sanitised imitation. We awoke the following morning to yet more glorious sunshine and warmth. It was time for the return journey and we'd achieved our objectives: scuffed knee sliders (Scoey couldn't believe it: "But it's still only February!"), I'd headbutted a perfectly innocent bee, our tyres were scrubbed round to the edges and we'd behaved like two carefree teenage hooligans. Yet the most awe-inspiring ride was still to come. We looked at the map and unwittingly planned the ride of a lifetime, which took us on small twisties from Roquebrun to Lamalou and east through Bedarieux to Lodeve on the N9. The scenery was stunning, with massive tree-lined avenues (so typical of France), cascading mountains, and much of the road running alongside the Orb river. We hit the N9 and headed north, climbing onto the cold, bleak and snow-encrusted plateau before hitting the steep descent and breathtaking, panoramic view of the countryside surrounding Millau. The town itself posed a real problem: we were short of fuel and scoured the streets for a good half hour before finding the only petrol station open. Sundays remain sacrosanct to the French. We continued up the twisty N9 and soon branched off for knee-down action on the road to Rodez, Figeac and on to Brive, where we hit our first rain storm. We aquaplaned, wheelspun and got soaked well before reaching Limoges, where the hotel owner welcomed us in, clad in our dripping wet bike gear. Only in France! The following day the Ducati decided to be its temperamental Italian self. The rain-soaked roads played havoc with the electrics: the temperature gauge read anything from dead cold to red-hot, and the front spark plug lead shorted out, necessitating Scoey removing part of the fairing and cleaning and taping up the HT lead (luckily we brought our own tools, as the Ducati's toolkit is comprised of one screwdriver and a spanner). It's times like these which make you appreciate the reliability of Japanese bikes, because thanks to the Ducati's foibles we missed our afternoon return ferry crossing. We were both so tired that we slept pretty soundly as the P&O ferry was tossed by the force nine gale on its way to Portsmouth, but our awakening in Britain was a rude one. We were greeted by an early morning snowstorm, which intensified as we progressed up the M3. The Ducati's throttle froze open (we think the carburettor slides iced up), so Scoey was forced to speed up and slow down by changing gear. He found the experience hair-raising; every time he let the clutch out the rear wheel spun and the back of the bike flicked out. As we picked our way north along the A34 to Newbury the tyre tracks in the snow became narrower and narrower. I eventually gave up dicing with death and pulled over, only to see Scoey sail by, shouting: "Don't stop! Don't stop!" The bloody fool, I thought, it's downright crazy to continue. We met up minutes later, laughing. Scoey told me about the Ducati's sticking throttle and I clicked - he couldn't stop! It was time to search for a hire van. France might be behind us, but the memory will stay forever. YOU WANNA DO IT TOO? Here's what it cost (per person) – 1996 Prices!!! FERRY (WITH CABIN) £64.50 AA 5-STAR COVER £34.25 PETROL £107 MEALS, DRINKS AND SNACKS £144 HOTELS (FOUR NIGHTS) £83 TOTAL £432.75 Which bike was best? You buy the Ducati with your heart, the Yamaha with your brain. That's what Scoey and I decided after our 1600-mile trip round France. We quickly fell in love with the Ducati. It's elegant, it oozes style and it turns heads. It's also the more sorted bike to ride. Once we'd junked those evil, original-equipment Michelins and fitted excellent Bridgestone BT50s, the 900 easily out-handled the TRX. The Ducati engine's mid-range is stronger as well, it gives a twin-cylinder throb all the way to the red line, and it sounds a treat. The Yamaha has neither the appearance nor the feel. It's far too sanitised. The engine looks heavy and lumpy, and the suspension is relatively soft and underdamped, the trellis chassis is uninspired alongside that of the 900SS, and despite the Duke being smaller, the Yamaha is less comfortable. But forget your heart and the TRX suddenly becomes the sensible option. Although the Ducati's brakes were better, they faded towards the end of our ride. The 900 also broke down in the wet and the throttle seized open in the extreme cold. The electrics played tricks - the temperature gauge had a mind of its own. All this while the Yamaha never missed a beat. Finally, there's the question of price. The 900SS retails at £8150, the TRX850 at £6950, £1200 less. That will be enough to convince most people"   |
| #2 15-Oct-2004, 02:11 | ||||
| ||||
| I really miss articles like this in magazines these days... Informative, thought provoking with a Ducati to boot -  I was a bit worried about the carbs freezing (not heard that one for a while), guess I'll just make sure I dont ride in winter  £8150 for a 1996 900SS !!! - were they REALLY that much  |
| #4 15-Oct-2004, 13:21 | ||||
| ||||
| |
| #6 15-Oct-2004, 15:13 | ||||
| ||||
| |
| #8 23-Oct-2004, 00:43 | |||
| |||
| Frank Excellent article, comes right in the middle of a damp dark wet patch...........weather folks, you knew what I meant.......... Now lookin forward to Spring (oh and Jerez in January, yipeeee) mort  |
| #9 23-Oct-2004, 01:11 | ||||
| ||||
| Your most welcome P.M. Dont you DARE ride that gorgeous Blu Duke of yours anywhere near salt or ice |
Monty
Linear Mode
