We conducted our latest podcast interview with a live audience at the Americade rally, held September 20-25, 2021, in Lake George, New York. Rider’s Editor-in-Chief Greg Drevenstedt interviewed the founders Bill and Gini Dutcher, and their son Christian, who is the Director of Americade, the Touratech DirtDaze Adventure Bike Rally, and Rolling Thru America. The first Americade rally, then called Aspencade East, was held in 1983 on the scenic shores of Lake George, nestled in the Adirondacks of upstate New York. The first event was a runaway success, and the event has grown steadily over the years to become the world’s largest touring rally. The Dutcher family talk about what the rally was like in the early days, and why motorcyclists from around the country return to Americade year after year. This is a special episode you don’t want to miss!
For more information about Americade, visit americade.com.
Ohio State Route 555, also known as the Triple Nickel, has for a long time been a beacon, calling single riders or large groups from all corners to experience its challenge. (Photos by the author)
No more than 10 miles from where I learned to ride a motorcycle is one of our country’s finest set of twists and turns. Prejudiced, you may be thinking, but these are not just my thoughts. They come straight from Car and Driver magazine, which in 2020 published a list of the dozen best driving (and riding!) roads in America. First on their list: Ohio State Route 555, also known as the Triple Nickel.
It’s a throwback, a two-lane highway built in another era, originally a gravel road for farmers and small-town folk to get to the big cities of Zanesville or Belpre, back in the Depression years when you might find a Hudson or Studebaker puttering along its 63 miles, the driver cursing every twist and turn that today make it a destination for car and motorcycle enthusiasts.
The Triple Nickel has the feel of a time long ago. Some may think it has a nostalgic charm, but don’t be deceived. There’s attitude-a-plenty along its miles. Photos by the author.
Nicholas Wallace introduced his Car and Driver piece by writing about the mystique of the best places to aim your car, or in our case, motorcycle: “Looking for an adventure – even if only in your mind? Let these treks take you away. Maybe it’s the fact that, despite constricting responsibilities and busy schedules, the car still stands as a beacon of freedom in our daily lives. It would take us hundreds of pages to list every great road, so instead we’ve brought you twelve of the best. Twisty, scenic, dangerous, and remote, these routes offer a lifetime’s supply of variety. So pack your stuff and head out – we promise it will be worth it.”
Pick a direction and at some point the highway will take you there, but rarely in a straight line.
Our motorcycles offer us that same beacon of freedom. Starting just south of Zanesville, I’ve been down our great Ohio highway many times, always on something made for scraping footpegs, not that I still have that kind of nerve. But today was to be different. For this ride I’d be on three wheels, on my brother’s Can-Am Spyder. It was to be my maiden voyage, my first time on his trike, soon to be mine. Chuck had warned me about an adjustment period, the time it would take to get comfortable on a machine so different from the two-wheeled motorcycles that have carried me for over half a million miles.
But my life had changed. Two vertigo attacks within three days had forced me to open my eyes to what might come next. The first bout had been when riding my Beemer on a western Ohio county road. In an instant I simply lost all sense of balance, going left of center and crashing in a farmer’s front yard. Luckily, I was unhurt and there was little damage to my bike. The second attack, when in my car, sealed the deal. For nearly a year since my crash, I’d been without a bike, until today.
The three-wheeled cycle, a 2014 model, had been Chuck’s pride and joy, the best bike he’d ever owned, he told me. Riding it that day was bittersweet. It should have been Chuck out on his Spyder. But his life had taken a turn of its own. For half of his 66 years he’d been plagued with muscular dystrophy, the disease slowly eating away at his ability to get around. It had finally gotten the upper hand, relegating Chuck to a walker and a wheelchair.
Dozens of American flags lined a long section of the highway, quickly out of view over the next hilltop. Around Halloween, there are small pumpkins on display.
But he had not gone quietly into his new solitude. Over the previous several years, Chuck had a single focus: to get his Spyder to 200,000 miles. He’d pushed hard, riding hundreds of miles every day. Only three years earlier he’d ridden over 43,000 miles in 12 months, with every year but the last tallying well over 30,000. But last June, at the height of the riding season, his body told him it was finished. It was done. (You can read more about Chuck’s high-mileage pursuits in “Chuck’s Race”.)
There are reminders along the highway of other eras, with Ohio’s famous highway having outlived them all.
Chuck had put up a valiant fight, but there are some things a human being simply can’t overcome. That last day, when he parked his trike, its odometer was frozen at 188,303 miles. But now, on this day – my day – it was to move again. It had fresh oil and a full tank of gas, so all I had to do was to check the tire pressure. Chuck had kept his Can-Am road-ready all winter, sometimes visiting and sipping a beer or two, reminiscing about the good old days, sometimes firing it up, simply to listen to the Spyder’s engine quietly humming along.
Farms, some owned by the Amish, thrive in the area, most found on hilly terrain, our motorcycles carving along their boundary lines.
The Spyder had been waiting, patiently, for nearly a year for its next adventure. It had waited long enough. Me too! For his trike, this was to be a new spring with a long summer ahead. There were miles to be ridden, new places to explore, with me holding the grips.
It was to be a careful ride. It was me that had to be broken in. Chuck watched as I rode up and down his rural road, getting my first feel of the Spyder. I couldn’t help but wonder what was going through his mind. He knew it would be my goal to get his Spyder’s odometer in motion once again, to get it past 200,000 miles. His trike was not meant to sit as a quiet monument to its past glory. What Chuck knew, in no uncertain terms, was that the road was where his Spyder was meant to be. And maybe, hopefully, this year it would take me along other top-ranked riding roads.
Near the highway’s northern beginning, the Triple Nickel Saloon has a sign out front asking everyone to “Look Out For Motorcycles.”
With both Chuck’s and my limitations, this three-wheeled cycle was meant for where I was heading. True, on a road meant for many to be a test of their riding talents, maybe riding the Triple Nickel wasn’t my wisest decision. There would be a learning curve, that I knew. But what better road was there to get the feel for the Spyder, to accelerate that learning curve, than where others went to challenge themselves. And for my Sunday ride, this highway, one of Ohio’s least traveled, was perfect.
The Triple Nickel Diner is in Chesterhill, the prettiest of the small communities along the highway. Some who ride the highway consider dining there mandatory.
“While not the most technical course,” Wallace wrote, “the Triple Nickel’s combination of high-speed sweepers and tight, low-speed corners means there’s something for everyone.” Granted, the other 11 highways in his story may have offered something more unique, a view of the Pacific, or the northern tundra along the Top of the World Highway, or the relentless craziness of the Tail of the Dragon. Of the nine highways on the list I’d ridden, the Triple Nickel, with its twists and turns, may have more closely resembled Mulholland Drive in California. But as I rode on, there was no question that Ohio State Route 555 fit right in.
This ride offered me the solitude I needed. This was a reawakening for me, a bridge from my past to a new future, to again feel the wind and see the road surface blurring beneath me. But respect for the highway was in order. The riding rules had changed. The undulating highway surface beneath me, not my natural sense of balance when on two wheels, set all of the rules. There was an initial element of uncertainty, with me in an unsettled place, somewhere between riding on two wheels and driving a car.
Words to live by, found at the Pleasant Hill M.E. Church Cemetery, the church founded in 1889 but long ago abandoned.
At one of my stops, local resident Tom Collins, who had seen me ride by and knew of this highway’s history all too well, summed up its danger in only one sentence, reminding me that, “For every mile of highway, there are two miles of ditches.” Riding buddy Mac Swinford added, “The 555, especially between Ringgold and Chesterhill, resembles a paved footpath constructed by a drunk who hated people.”
Cannelville, then Deavertown and Portersville, were first in line, three tiny towns forgotten as soon as I rode beyond them, reminded of their names only by looking at my map. Then Chesterhill, a quaint and attractive community, and Bartlett, where you can find lunch if you know where to look. You can get gas just north of Chesterhill on Ohio Route 377, and in Bartlett a half mile to the east on Ohio 550, another great ride by the way, but nowhere else
Judy Pletcher’s front porch message in Deavertown, something I had to stop and ask about. It was something she had seen and liked, and a gift from her daughter, Martha.
Russell Pletcher, a Vietnam veteran, with one of his pride and joys, a ’64 Chevrolet Impala SS. Russell scored 15 points for the York Tigers basketball team in their February 12, 1965, 171-point record performance, a record that still stands today.
The highway draws you in, encompassing you in a unique way. Then all too suddenly, once after little Decaturville, then into Fillmore and near Little Hocking, the highway ends. One minute you’re on the highway, and then the next it’s over, finished. There’s not even a sign. Every time I ride this road there’s an immediate sense of disappointment, wishing there was more.
A new chapter opens for Chuck, from two wheels to three and now on four, where he can still feel the breeze against his face. He installed a GPS unit in his new golf cart to keep track of his speed, and naturally his miles driven. What else would you expect? Chuck’s race continues.
If it hadn’t been for my brother’s Spyder, I doubt I’d ever have ridden again. At 72 years of age, I might have simply allowed myself to leave behind the joy of riding I’ve known from before my adult years. Chuck sensed it too. He wanted me to ride toward a sunset he could no longer enjoy. There are always new highways, singular places we need to find, known and unknown to us. This day I was being introduced to the Spyder that would take me to many of them.
This highway is worthy of its #1 ranking, with its endless array of ups and downs and arounds, where not long ago I might have stretched my limits. But that was not my purpose this first day on the Spyder. By the end of my ride, I knew Chuck’s trike a lot better. I knew after the Triple Nickel’s 63 miles it was something I could get used to. I should know better by the time the odometer rolls over 200,000 miles.
Ride on!
The Can-Am felt right at home. It had been here before. But for me, on my first Spyder ride, it was slower going, calling for caution and patience
Suzuki has released the successor to the GSX-S1000F, the new 2022 GSX-S1000GT and GT+ models.
We took a first look at Suzuki’s aggressively redesigned GSX-S1000 naked sportbike back in April, and rumors of a sport-touring variant have been amplifying ever since. Enter the new GSX-S1000GT, successor to the S1000F, with all the performance of the new S1000 on which it is based, and all the comfort and features expected from a long-haul tourer.
As with the new Hayabusa, the new GT model is fitted with Suzuki’s Intelligent Ride System (SIRS), which includes the Suzuki Drive Mode Selector (SDMS), Traction Control, Ride by Wire Electronic Throttle, Bi-Directional Quick Shift, Suzuki Easy Start, and Low RPM Assist systems.
It is powered by a street tuned version of the GSX-R sportbike’s 999cc, in-line four-cylinder engine, which has been updated with a revised intake and exhaust camshafts, cam chain tensioners, valve springs, and redesigned clutch and gearshift components. Suzuki says the enhancements deliver a broader, more consistent torque curve while meeting Euro 5 emissions compliance standards.
The GSX-S1000GT also utilizes the S1000’s twin-spar aluminum frame and aluminum-alloy braced swingarm from the GSX-R1000. Fully adjustable KYB suspension, ABS-equipped radial-mount Brembo monoblock calipers biting 310mm floating rotors. A new trellis-style sub-frame creates secure attachment points for the 36-liter side cases and promises an improved passenger experience.
2022 GSX-S1000GT+ is equipped with integrated side-cases.
A new cast-aluminum, rubber-mounted handlebar provides a relaxed body position, coupled with rubber footpeg inserts for long-haul comfort. Rider and passenger seats benefit from a new sporty design maximizing comfort on long rides, and both seats sport a new cover material that balances grip with freedom of movement and integrates well with the new grab-bar design. Equipped with all-around LED lights, the distinctive horizontally arranged headlights match the latest Suzuki styling.
The GSX-S1000GT is equipped with a 6.5-inch, full-color TFT LCD screen set into the inner fairing above the handlebars for enhanced visibility and protection from debris. The brightness-adjustable TFT panel features a scratch-resistant surface and an anti-reflective coating and integrates with the SUZUKI mySPIN smartphone connectivity application. A USB outlet can also be used to connect and charge a smartphone.
The 2022 Suzuki GSX-S1000GT will be available in two color schemes: Metallic Reflective Blue, and Glass Sparkle Black, each set off with distinctive GT logos. Manufacturers suggested pricing for both the GT and GT+ are yet to be announced.
This feature was published in the August 2021 issue of Rider. (Photos by Eric Trow)
I was doing a valve adjustment on a vintage BMW at home in southwestern Pennsylvania as my then 13-year-old son Parker looked on. “You know, Park, 20 years ago I rode a bike like this one across the country.” Pause. “Maybe I should take a 20th anniversary ride to the West Coast and back.” Without hesitation, Parker replied, “Make it the 25th anniversary and I’ll go with you!”
The thought of traveling across the country by motorcycle with my son was a fabulous notion. But, while such an adventure with Dad might seem fantastical to a kid, surely new priorities would squeeze out this plan by the time he turned 18. Yet, Parker continued to research the trip, propose routes, and suggest must-see attractions. We pored over maps and travel books. We read Blue Highways – him for the first time and me for the third – about the wonders of traveling America’s two-lane highways. This whimsical idea was evolving from abstract to absolute.
After five years of planning, father and son are ready to embark on their epic journey to discover America.
We still had his mother to convince. I reassured her Parker would first get the requisite training and emphasized how this trip would allow the boy to develop his skills while under my constant observation. I would avoid setting firm daily destinations and, instead, we would stop when we got tired. Or sooner. We would send her updates from the road, and she could track our progress through the Spot satellite tracker software. Disapprovingly, she gave her approval.
Parker kept a journal to document the experience. It began on the first night of our journey after we set up camp in Indiana.
After three days riding across the Great Plains, the mountains were a welcome sight.
After years of preparation, the faraway date arrived. Family, friends, and a couple neighbors I don’t think I’d ever met gathered to give us a proper send-off. Parker and I slipped the bikes – him on a Triumph Bonneville Thunderbird and me on a BMW R 1150 R, both heavily laden with luggage – into gear and eased onto the road, leaving family and friends waving in the mirrors. The made-for-TV moment was made a little less dramatic when I had to ride back for my wallet, but it was still pretty cool.
Eric and Parker Trow, as they cross into Colorado.
Blue highways took us through small-town America.
Escaping the familiar landscape of Pittsburgh, we picked up U.S. Route 50 west heading into unknown territories for Parker. After nagging technology issues, we abandoned the bike-to-bike radio comms and went old-school. Although we were traveling just a few bike lengths apart, we would experience the road individually. Later, when we stopped for gas or food, or at the end of the day, we would recall what we saw and thought about. I’d nearly forgotten how special such conversations can be. It was satisfying to see how much Parker was enjoying the experience and connecting with the magic of back roads and small-town America.
We always though of West Virginia as “almost heaven.” Colorado provides some tough competition for that claim.
A pivotal moment was when we stopped in historic Madison, Indiana, for a bite. As we strolled the sidewalk in search of a coffee shop, an older gentleman approached from the opposite direction. “Good morning!” he said joyfully. It was a standard social exchange except for one thing: instead of continuing to walk on by after the polite acknowledgement, the man stopped. We stopped. And right there, we began an impromptu conversation.
Silhouetted cowboys on horseback welcomed Eric and Parker to Dodge City, Kansas.
I think the scene threw Parker off for a moment, but he quickly embraced it. The man asked about our journey and listened with interest. He told us about his town and his life there. And, as we paused to engage with each other, strangers became acquaintances. The gentleman undoubtedly went on to tell others the story of the father-and-son two-wheel travelers he’d met, and Parker and I have shared the story of this kind and interesting man as well. This is the small-town friendliness and hospitality I was drawn to as a young solo traveler, and it was wonderful to see Parker discovering it as well.
Carrying a tremendous sense of responsibility, I devoted a good bit of my attention to making sure all was well with Parker behind me.
In each town we would eat local and order what the locals ate. In Syracuse, Kansas, the favorite was lengua tacos. That’s cow tongue, for the unfamiliar.
That brings to mind another encounter. A man on his riding mower waved enthusiastically to Parker and me from his front yard as we rode by. We waved back with matched enthusiasm. About a mile ahead, Parker and I made a U-turn, deciding to circle back to explore an interesting store we’d passed. As we rode back by the mowing man, he was waving just as fervently as before. We waved again. Following our store visit, we traveled past the man and his mower for a third time. Sure enough, his arm was high in the air. That’s when Parker and I realized our new friend was a mannequin that had been placed on the riding mower, its arm propped in a permanent welcoming wave to passersby.
We waved to this guy each of the three times we passed by the property. By the third time we recognized it was a mannequin placed to welcome travelers.
I’d ridden the interstate through Missouri and Kansas in the past and have little to recall – the super slab isolates travelers from the local culture. Parker and I rode into the heartland instead of past it. No rest-stop plazas for us; we visited family-owned restaurants and sampled the local flavors, like lengua (tongue) tacos at El Rancho in Syracuse, Kansas.
Traveling across the endless Great Plains gives one abundant time to think. Or get mischievous. Recognizing it was time to update Parker’s mother, we paused to take photos of each other performing “stunts,” including standing on the seat and riding without hands on the controls. We texted her the pictures with greetings from Kansas. In reality, the bikes were parked securely on their centerstands at the shoulder of the road, but the camera cropped out that little detail. Mom was not as amused as we were.
Kansas left us abundant time to be creative. We posed for pictures to send as travel updates to Parker’s mother. For the record, the bike was parked on its centerstand along the shoulder of the road.
When the landscape goes unchanged for hours, one gets silly ideas when something fresh and different pops up.
Eventually, the Rocky Mountains rose before us, and Parker had an opportunity to apply his training as we took to the demanding mountain passes of Colorado. I threw in a favorite 36-mile scenic dirt stretch known as Colorado River Road to show Parker the joys that can be found down a dirt road and to build his confidence riding unpaved surfaces on a loaded streetbike. We went on to conquer Independence Pass and, from there, got every penny out of the Million Dollar Highway, as we negotiated its daunting twists, turns, and drop-offs in the rain.
Out West, dark skies like this can linger for hours and present the rider with intense weather and tough decisions.
Just beyond Four Corners (the juncture of Arizona, Utah, Colorado, and New Mexico) an ominous black cloud loomed overhead. Afternoon Western storms can be severe and sometimes move slowly, an d, in this open territory, there is no place to duck for cover. I knew such storms were often isolated and this one appeared to be small, so with just one path available to get us to where we needed to go, we leaned toward the darkness and into an intense, blinding downpour. We emerged just a couple minutes later into sunny skies. I pulled over to make sure Parker was okay and to talk about the experience. He asked if I’d seen the other rider who had pulled over in the downpour to wait it out. With such a slow-moving storm, the guy was likely to get pelted for another hour or more.
They call it the Great American Desert. Yet this little patch is the only sand we saw.
Our path took us to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon and then over to America’s Mother Road, old U.S. Route 66. We wheeled into Seligman, Arizona, as night fell where an abundance of neon signs and classic American roadside attractions were abuzz. The next day, our kicks continued on Route 66 over to Kingman. Thinking Parker would enjoy seeing Las Vegas, we detoured north.
Unfortunately, my gamble on Vegas was a bust. Bumper-to-bumper traffic on the Strip plus 110-degree heat dealt us a bad hand. With no air movement, the heat inside our riding gear was unbearable. My air-cooled BMW’s valves rattled in protest each time I twisted the throttle. It wanted out, Parker wanted out, and I was more than willing to oblige. Without exploring a single casino, we fought our way back to the desert highway. We had taken a four-hour detour just to sit in Vegas traffic in sweltering heat. That’s when I learned just how much my son dislikes being hot.
After days of straightline riding across the Plains, the curves and elevation were a welcome sight.
It was 114 degrees in the desert. At 70 mph I opened my faceshield to get some relief from the heat inside my helmet only to meet a blast furnace of even hotter air. At a stop, I paid a fortune for two large bottles of water. After drinking a couple swigs of mine, I poured the rest onto my shirt to soak it down for evaporative cooling. Good idea had I not been wearing a moisture-wicking shirt. The water sluiced off the shirt and onto the hot pavement where it evaporated instantly. Parker laughed, and that was all it took to lighten the mood.
Years ago I had taken the same photo with my brother when I arrived in California. I was thrilled to emulate the pic with my son 25 years later.
In contrast to the open desert highway, we went on to navigate the frenzied L.A. freeways and then we surfed the rad canyons of the Santa Monica Mountains above Malibu, ultimately winding our way back to U.S. Route 101. A right turn and we were tracing the coastline northward.
One night, with limited lodging options along a remote stretch of Highway 1 and daylight gone, we set up camp in the pitch blackness at a roadside pull-off. We could hear the ocean, so it must have been a prime spot. Come daylight, we found we’d pitched our tent less than 10 feet from the edge of a sheer cliff with a hundred-foot drop to the rocks below. Thankfully, neither of us stepped out to relieve ourselves in the middle of the night.
We set up camp in the blackness of night. By morning we realized we’d pitched our tent less than 10 feet from a cliff high above the rocky ocean shore.
We stumbled upon Laguna Seca Raceway in Monterey and watched vintage sports cars practicing for the weekend’s races. We had the best eggs benedict breakfast ever in Carmel (Katy’s Place), rode on to San Francisco, did the Golden Gate Bridge thing, and then worked our way east away from the hustle and bustle into the serenity of the Eldorado National Forest and Lake Tahoe region. We’d seen countless small towns by this point, but none as small as Kyburz. A sign outside an old hotel read, “Welcome to Kyburz. Now leaving Kyburz.”
From Reno, we ventured onto “The Loneliest Road in America,” the endless stretch of U.S. Route 50 extending forward to the ends of the earth. No traffic. No animals. No gas stations – a disconcerting notion when the fuel light comes on and there is no sign of civilization for miles ahead and at least 120 miles to the rear.
With no vehicles or people for miles in any direction, U.S. Route 50 through Nevada is aptly named The Loneliest Road in America.
Some 400 miles later, the wide-open nothingness eventually transitioned to the otherworldly landscape of Utah as we rode State Route 24 to Hanksville, where we established camp. A friendly dog warmed up to Parker and followed him everywhere he went, even tailing our bikes for a quarter-mile as we rolled out the next morning toward Moab.
Paralleling Interstate 70 on the more relaxed U.S. Route 6 back through Colorado was our blue highway choice. It’s amazing how different the experience is even a hundred yards off the interstate. We then crossed I-70, took a few more mountain passes to the north, and rose to 12,000 feet at Rocky Mountain National Park, ultimately wrapping the day in Cheyenne, Wyoming.
From the moment they arrived at the campground in Hanksville, Utah, a dog attached itself to Parker and followed him everywhere he went.
This is what 700 miles on I-80 can do to you. And all he could recall seeing were trucks, cornfields, and rest stops. It was a sharp contrast to the sensory-rich experience of America’s back roads.
The casual travel and spontaneous side trips made for an unforgettable experience, but the time window of our journey was closing. Somewhere around Ogallala, Nebraska, we shifted from lazy blue highways to the frenzied Interstate 80 for the return stretch across Iowa, Illinois, and points east. Although we logged more than 700 miles one particular day, when asked what he saw throughout that day’s ride, Parker could only list cars, cornfields, and truck stops. A sharp contrast to the sensory-rich secondary roads we’d been enjoying previously.
In one giant protracted real-world riding session, Parker discovered an America unknown to many. An America that is still kind, compassionate, welcoming, and helpful. He also discovered more about himself, his values, and his character. As a traveler, Parker discovered how to handle a wide variety of riding and weather conditions and successfully navigate a traveler’s challenges. The experience made him an infinitely better rider, a more passionate traveler, and a true lover of small-town America.
Heading into Arches National Park.
Over our roughly 9,000-mile ride, we also learned a great deal about each other. We bonded over discovery and adventure. When we weren’t talking about bikes or travel, we talked about life. We discovered new aspects of each other and grew our mutual respect. Motorcycles have a way of bringing people closer – even those who are already quite close.
Parker’s Perspective
A month on the road with your dad isn’t what most 18-year-olds have in mind for the gap between high school and adult life, but for me this was like a second graduation. It was the nod from my dad that I was ready to dive into the unknown. It was a sign of trust, but also an invitation to share in a lifelong passion. A welcoming to the club of discovery and the joys of no set plans, time for reflection, and seeing how much diversity this country has to offer while simultaneously learning what ties us all together.
A little dampness couldn’t dampen the spirits of riders discovering incredible new terrain and spectacular vistas.
There’s no way I could have known at age 13 that a few weeks after graduating high school was the perfect time for a trip like this. At the intersection of “my house, my rules” and total freedom was an opportunity to force a perspective shift. To reflect on who I wanted to become as an adult. To evolve my relationship with my dad. To put into perspective the sheer scale of this country I’d lived in for 18 years but had yet to experience. And to challenge myself, testing newly learned skills, and building my confidence to move from the passenger seat to the saddle, in more ways than one.
Over the course of this trip, I finished reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, a classic book about a father-and-son motorcycle journey. I was incredibly lucky to have the opportunity to do a trip like this and am grateful that my dad had the gumption to follow through and make it all happen. I had no clue the impact this trip would have on me as a rider, a son, and a person. Fourteen years later, Dad and I could still spend all day talking about the things we experienced together on this trip – leaving enough time, of course, to plan where we will go next. — Parker Trow
Our guest on Episode 19 of the Rider Magazine Insider Podcast is Lauren Trantham, founder of Ride My Road. In 2016, Lauren set out on a 10,000-mile solo motorcycle journey across the United States to photograph American survivors of human trafficking. She founded Ride My Road to reach as many people as possible about the realities of human trafficking in America. The organization has raised over $160,000 for survivor-led organizations, hosted dozens of events across the country, and educated thousands of motorcyclists. Ride My Road hosts F.A.S.T. (Fight Against Sex Trafficking) Ride charity events and the #Survivorbike Series (volunteer builders restore old bikes and donate them for fundraising giveaways), and it recently launched Disruptors University.
Zero release the FXE, an affordable, fun urban commuter with a claimed range of 100 miles.
Zero Motorcycles has been around for well over a decade now, and it’s no surprise that the evolving EV space has seen a great deal of innovation in that time. Although the key issue of range vs. weight will still give petrol-heads reason to pause, it’s also fair to say that e-motos have become a good deal more practical, and fun. But perhaps the other enduring issue holding back potential buyers is their cost. Case in point, Zero’s fully faired and extremely quick SR/S or naked SR/F will set you back $20,000.
Enter the FXE. New for 2021, Zero has taken the existing frame from the FX and added a redesigned body. The starkly modern, supermoto styling is very similar in appearance to the FXS – tall, slim and sporting a raised front mudguard. However, the FXE is capable of a claimed 100-mile range on a full battery charge and costs $11,795, which can be bought down to around $10,000 depending upon available EV rebates and credits.
2021 Zero FXE
The 7.2 kWh battery in the FXE drives a passively air-cooled, brushless, permanent magnet motor, which produces a claimed peak power of 46 horsepower and 78 pound-feet of torque, and with a top speed of 85 mph, the FXE can take to the highway. Unlike the more expensive models, the FXE is not compatible with public charging stations and is designed to be charged via a standard 110-volt household outlet. It takes over nine hours to fully recharge the battery, although this can be reduced to just under two hours with the optional accessory charger. The FXE utilizes Zero’s Cypher II operating system and the new connectivity enabled 5-inch TFT display is compatible with the Zero app, providing access to ride modes, Eco and Sport, and battery status.
A Showa 41 mm inverted fork, and monoshock take care of suspension and are adjustable for preload, compression, and rebound damping. Bosch calipers are fitted with a single disc front and back, and ABS is standard. Zero claims a wet weight of 298 pounds, which promises exciting performance from the 46 horses available and a handy machine for dealing with tight urban spaces. But surprisingly, advantages in accessibility imparted by its lightweight are somewhat undone by the tall seat height, which at 32.8 inches will put some shorter riders off.
Supermoto styling, practical range, and a relatively affordable price should appeal to a wider range of customers.
Compared to many of its heavier, more expensive competitors the FXE is a lightweight and thrilling runabout, and what it gives up in range it makes up for in accessibility and potential for fun. The FXE makes for a credible commuter bike, capable of taking to the highway but ideal to zip around town on.
Zero FXE Specs
Base Price: $11,795 (excluding electric vehicle rebates and credits) Website: https: zeromotorcycles.com Battery: 7.2 kWh Motor Type: Air-cooled, brushless, permanent magnet motor Transmission: Clutchless direct drive Final Drive: 90T / 18T belt Wheelbase: 56 in. Rake/Trail: 24.4 degrees / 2.8 in. Seat Height: 32.9 in. Wet Weight: 298 lbs. Charging Time: 9.2 hours (via 110-volt household outlet to 95 percent) Fuel Consumption: 373 eMPG (claimed) Maximum Range: 100 miles (claimed)
The new Tuono V4 Factory is still an out-and-out hypernaked sport-bike, with upgraded suspension and new electronics. (Photos by Larry Chen Photo)
It was a glorious morning in Pasadena, California, and the huge windows overlooking historic Colorado Boulevard bathed Aprilia’s Advanced Design Center office in natural light. Miguel Galluzzi, whom many credit with saving Ducati when he designed the groundbreaking and immensely popular Monster, sat impassively as the room filled with journalists. Galluzzi is also the designer responsible for Aprilia’s RSV4 and Tuono V4 models, which take full advantage of the extremely compact and powerful 1,077cc V4 engine.
Galluzzi explained that the Advanced Design Center allows his team to sit at the heart of the North American market, where proximity to a diverse group of riders and their viewpoints can be fed directly into their design process, fresh and unfiltered. The latest CAD technology and 3D printing allow design ideas inspired by feedback, coupled with cutting-edge advances trickling down from Aprilia’s factory racing team, to be prototyped and tested more efficiently than ever.
The two models – Tuono V4 Factory on left, Tuono V4 on right – are almost identical on paper, but offer different experiences.
The result, we are told, are the most advanced Tuono models yet, a combination of incremental updates designed to improve handling and accommodate a broad spectrum of riders’ needs. The V4 engine is now Euro 5 compliant, and with some tweaking Aprilia has managed to match the outgoing model’s performance. Claimed peak horsepower is 175 at 11,350 rpm and maximum torque is 89 lb-ft at 9,000 rpm.
Influences from the racetrack include a redesigned fairing with integrated winglets and enhanced geometry to improve handling at the limits, as well as a new inverted swingarm designed to improve traction at the rear wheel. The updated seat is wider, longer, and surprisingly comfortable. A new sculpted fuel tank looks gorgeous and maintains the same 4.9-gallon capacity. The Tuono V4 gets an improved 5-inch TFT dash and new switchgear. The headlight array features the triple LED headlight and a DRL configuration common to the rest of the Tuono line, with the addition of cornering lights.
The Tuono V4 is designed to take you further, with all the thrills, added comfort, and even luggage, if required.
Despite being nearly identical on paper, the new Tuono V4 models are quite different in terms of experience. Track rats will be happy to hear that the V4 Factory model is still an out-and-out naked maniac, and is the more expensive, track-focused of the two. The street-focused Tuono V4 represents a new direction, designed to go places carrying more than just a rider and a bare minimum of gear.
The Factory version is now fitted with Öhlins Smart EC 2.0 semi-active suspension and a new Magneti Marelli ECU, controlling fueling and a full suite of electronics. Four times faster than the previous ECU and fully integrated via ride-by-wire throttle and a six-axis IMU, the new setup promises more precise and programable handling for road and track. There are three preset and three track-oriented, user-programmable riding modes, and a host of adjustable rider aids, including traction control, wheelie control, launch control, engine mapping, engine braking, cornering ABS, cruise control, and an up/down quickshifter.
The Tuono V4 is billed as a naked, but a minimalist fairing now incorporates racing inspired winglets.
Siting astride the Factory, it feels much more compact than might be expected from a liter bike. The body position is definitely sporty, but the wide bars and seat feel roomy, even for my 6-foot 2-inch stature. Setting off in Tour mode, within the first few miles the V4 Factory somehow feels familiar. Even on the highway leading us to the twisty mountain roads, it is impossible to completely open the throttle for more than a moment before running out of road, and any true test of the Factory model would require a racetrack.
Throttle response is immediate but initial ham-fistedness is miraculously smoothed out before I can get myself into trouble and I throw the Tuono into the turns with some confidence. Steering is light yet purposeful and exact, the front wheel holding its line despite less-than-perfect surface conditions. A single pop on the downshift raises a smile, and ballistic acceleration on corner exits, accompanied by one of the most fantastic, raspy exhaust notes ever to erupt from a stock can, leaves me grinning like an idiot.
The Tuono V4 Factory is nimble and precise, even on less than perfect roads.
The Factory is fitted with Brembo’s M50 monoblock front calipers, which offer progressive feel and no want of braking capability. With my knees firmly pocketed in the sculpted tank I can keep my weight off the bars, gripping the bike with less effort, and lean into corners with a connected conviction. The V4 Factory’s comfort and ergonomics compare quite well to rivals like the KTM 1290 Super Duke R and Triumph Speed Triple 1200 RS, yet its sportbike credentials remain intact.
The standard Tuono V4 feels similar. Slightly raised handlebars make for a less aggressive stance. Despite lower pillion pegs, the rider’s footpegs are identically placed on both models, providing plenty of clearance but also a potential source of fatigue over long distances. A slightly larger fly screen and upper fairing, a practical pillion seat, grab handles, and optional luggage all make for a hyper-naked sport-tourer, with a heavy emphasis on sport.
Performance is identical to the Factory model, and the standard model will make a capable track-day machine if required. Its taller top gear makes for comfortable, economical highway cruising, as you make your way to the next winding backroad. The standard comes equipped with fully adjustable Sachs suspension, front and rear, but on the road, its handling is fairly close to that of the Factory.
The new Tuono V4 and Tuono V4 Factory are intoxicating motorcycles. They offer astounding power in a compact, lightweight chassis that is exhilarating. And yet, thanks to its suite of adjustable electronics, they are both rewarding and manageable. And one can never forget – or grow tired of – the machine-gun salute connected to your right wrist. While the Factory will keep the Tuono faithful satisfied, the standard model will open up the Tuono range to a host of new riders, who, like me, actually want to go places and bring more than just our wallet and smartphone.
The new Tuono has a broader appeal. Track enthusiasts will love the factory for its suspension and formidable array of programable settings, while sports riders who like to cover miles can now add the Tuono V4 to their list of possibilities.
2021 Tuono V4 / Tuono V4 Factory Specs
Base Price: $15,999 / $19,499 Website:aprilia.com Engine Type: Liquid cooled, transverse 65-degree V-4, DOHC w/ 4 valves per cyl. Displacement: 1,077cc Bore x Stroke: 81.0 x 52.3mm Horsepower: 175 @ 11,000 rpm (claimed, at crank) Torque: 89 lb-ft @ 9,000 rpm (claimed, at crank) Transmission: 6-speed, cable-actuated slip/assist wet clutch Final Drive: X-ring chain Wheelbase: 57.1 in. Rake/Trail: 24.8 degrees/3.9 in. Seat Height: 32.5 in. Wet Weight: 461 lbs. Fuel Capacity: 4.9 gals.
Our guest on Episode 18 of the Rider Magazine Insider Podcast is Keith Code, founder and director of California Superbike School, which has trained more than 150,000 students over the past 40 years, with track schools throughout the U.S., the U.K. and Australia. Sixty-five world and national championships have been won by racers trained by Keith Code or his coaches, and champions such as Wayne Rainey and James Toseland have used Code’s methodology. Code has been a regular columnist in Motorcyclist magazine, and he’s the author of several books including “A Twist of the Wrist” and “The Soft Science of Road Racing Motorcycles.” California Superbike School holds training from February through November at tracks throughout the U.S.
This essay was originally published in the September 1992 issue of Rider. (Illustration by Roland Roy)
Sometimes you don’t know where you are, the name of the town or even the state. The place is located by days and miles. It is remembered by highway proximity. And by what kind of terrors gripped you there.
For me, that April night fell on day four. I had already passed through New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Virginia and North Carolina, finally stopping in Tennessee. Yes, that’s as far as I must have gotten. Near U.S. Highway 81. Days Inn.
After a little practice, divesting a motorcycle of all its luggage for the night and carrying it into a motel — three trips, including the tool pack with its 10 tons of lock, spare cables, liter of oil, roll of tape, tire tube, rain gear — doesn’t get any more fun. But such a trip, all alone, is about repetition as much as it’s about welcoming the blessedly new. I’ve always stayed at Days Inns or Knights Inns, make of that symmetry whatever you will, because a woman searching for lodgings after dark by herself is looking only for predictability and the guaranteed anonymity these places make it their business to provide.
After three days of telling myself different, the truth was coming through like green oxide on bogus silver: this wasn’t such a gas. My vacation, my proud declaration, my little adventure, was oppressing me as nothing before. I hadn’t suddenly become loquacious the minute I hit the road, the sort who meets locals at every way station and makes them fast friends over a bowl of chili, or gets invitations that start a new trajectory of discovery about the places passed through. I was still myself only more so, saying not much more than was necessary to purchase gas, coffee, a place to sleep, glossy post cards on which “Wish you were here” was written with no little urgency. Night would bring the same: take-out food eaten at the plasticized fake-wood veneered desk; a long bath to leach the cold from the bones; the local news indistinguishable from any local news anywhere; five hours before sleep to kill in the confines of the double-double-bedded room because continuing after nightfall pushed the stakes up a tad too high; a dose or two of Jack because of that.
I was feeling every one of the 975 miles that separated me from home. The most comfort I’d had was talking to my painfully estranged boyfriend, a mechanic, from a hotel room in Waynesboro, Virginia, the first night. Earlier in the day, stopping at a truck plaza after riding through two hours of the most imposing rainstorm I’d ever encountered, I’d noticed the box at the rear axle spewing the 90-weight oil that lubricated the shaft drive. My boyfriend was properly worried on my behalf and told me to seek out a bike shop in town the next day and have it checked out before I started down the Blue Ridge Parkway. The second deepest conversation I’d had in all the intervening time was at that shop, when four mechanics stopped to inspect my bike.
Now, near U.S. Highway 81, I spread the map out on the rigid bed and scanned it for some promise that I might make it all the way home tomorrow, three days before schedule. There didn’t seem much point in drawing it out longer, to look for more motels just like the last. I’d simply had enough of blissful solitude.
However I looked at it, though, the miles would collapse no further. There were at least 15 hours of holding the throttle open at a steady 70 mph etched in those lines, and it couldn’t be done — not by me at least. The force of the wind at that speed, the temperature, the buzzing, the constant watchfulness, the tension that crept up the neck, took it out of you too fast. You got more tired on a bike than you ever thought possible.
The days had grown so elongated that to look back on them seemed to be to glance into history: had it really been this same afternoon that I had ridden up the side of Mount Mitchell, parked, and ascended the lookout tower in the persistent wind that blows up there? Taking in the small exhibit room empty of visitors except for me, I read the placards that described Mitchell’s quest to prove that his mountain was actually higher than Clingman’s Dome, that it was in fact the highest spot in the East. Scrambling around on the desolate peak with his calibrators, he slipped and fell, perhaps dying instantly, perhaps waiting days for death in the cove of rocks. His was a bitter feud with Clingman, and his victory was posthumous. He lay now under the stones there, unable to give up his purchase on faith. At the height of my own futile journey, I realized that he and I were about the only people up here on this cold day, and he was dead.
I had known from my trip down this bucolic byway the previous October, legendary among motorcyclists, that the next stretch would take me farther into the Smokies, and that the higher I went, the lonelier the way. Then, though, I had simply felt alone, not lonely; I was with a man I was beginning to love. At that stage you welcome the height, the wide vista over uninhabited wild. It feels fine to be there and feel small, together. Now, the peculiar lunar landscape at 6,053 feet, the highest point on the Ridge, was crushing. The wind singing over the rocks had an edge of cruelty. I had climbed into the thinner air with my Guzzi’s beating engine without seeing but a car or two hurrying in the other direction, and the groups of riders I’d hoped to fall in with were still home, waiting for the next month and warmer air.
I wouldn’t let it stop me from going through the motions of marking my trip in the customary manner, and I stopped the Moto Guzzi in front of the sign that declared this the highest point in order to take the obligatory photo of proof. As I did so the lone man who had been standing, looking out over the view from the opposite end of the parking lot, came up behind me and told me I could get into the picture, too.
After handing my camera back he engaged me in a conversation that felt somewhat unreal: he told me his destination, his reason for g here in such an unvacationlike month, all the while glancing at my bike. As often happens, he informed me he used to ride, too, and asked me if the road was good for riding. My enthusiasm was a little forced – it certainly was, but I would have hardly known it from this experience. He said he wasn’t sure if he’d ever make such a trip alone, and he kept complimenting me on my bravery, though I wanted to correct his misapprehension so it could bear the more proper label: foolishness, a bid to prove I would have a grand time without anyone else at all.
But I couldn’t say it to this stranger. It took too much explaining, too much time-intensive shading between black lines. The simple version was more appropriate to this meeting, so I let him have it the way he wanted. He insisted on writing his name and address in my notebook, extracting a promise that if I ever passed through Iowa I’d look him up. I put it in my tank bag with an assurance that I would, while the knowledge that I wouldn’t sunk down hollowly inside.
There was nothing else to do but get on the bike and keep going, to the next mark on my map, the end of the Parkway in Cherokee.
On the prior trip, too, I had insisted on stopping in this gewgaw heaven, darting into stores on a restless search for the perfect ridiculous souvenir, tiring out my boyfriend until he cried uncle. He let me go on rushing from shop to shop while he waited outside by the row of glass windows that housed the Drumming Duck and the rattlesnake and the python and the rabbit clown and the other sad creatures on display for the visitors who paused a moment, pointed to the displays for their ice-cream-sticky children, then hurried on to buy their rubber tomahawks and beaded belts.
On this day I went looking again, having never found the perfection in plastic I sought, but after two stores I wandered back to my bike and glanced at the sky. It was getting late, and I needed to make it through the winding ways of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park with plenty of light. Besides, I had it in mind to visit Dollywood in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, before nightfall.
Pressing on. I began seeing monumental billboards, on which a horrific, huge butterfly loomed, for the attraction miles before town, a formerly bereft Hamlet that had been Dolly Parton’s hometown before she made it big and it turned into a theme park of cheap restaurants and Western-wear outlets. I turned into the massive parking lot for the amusement park and saw the sign that informs two bucks is the price for parking; besides thinking that was steep for the few minutes I wanted to spend inside, I always resented paying anything to put such a narrow machine into a corner that couldn’t have been used by anything else anyway. Then I found out the admission was $18, and that clinched it. Who spent that much money to ride a ferris wheel alone? Shady characters in old movies did it, but they had ulterior motives. I could only turn around, another wistful goal having come in sight and revealed itself useless in plain view.
The sky was lower as I headed back out of Pigeon Forge, and I wanted to do it fast. I wanted to find somewhere I could be alone where no one would see me being alone. It was time to find the night’s Days Inn.
I hauled in all the garbage — the saddlebags, tank bag, helmet, tool bag. I went back down the hill to the service station’s convenience store and got some Italian rolls that were too white and too soft and a package of string cheese, thus exhausting their variety of real food. I sat in the bathtub and turned on the orange-red heat lamp so that the timer buzzed judiciously for 20 minutes. I unfurled the map and read it with a side of bourbon, so that some time in the future I might be able to fall asleep in the strangely familiar room. I made my peace as best I could with the discovery that I would have one more night like this, but I could do it. Since I had to, I could.
I turned on the news, and just when I was listening intently to some important-sounding item about the municipal airport of the nearby town I can’t recall the name of, I heard the voice.
It spoke in a stage whisper that reached to the fifth tier and back.
It said, “Tomorrow is the last day you will spend on earth.”
A shaking started in my gut, my feet felt very far away. The words of the anchorperson continued to accumulate in the room like cotton batting being stuffed into a mattress. Behind my eyes a scene was now projected, and I saw a white car of some general make coming at me and my white bike — a horror all dressed in the tones of clouds — but there the movie stopped, although I knew its end.
The utter precipitousness and incongruity of this final pronouncement made me unable to avoid its truth. I had apparently had one of those supermarket-tabloid premonitions: WOMAN FORESEES OWN DEATH.
It seemed just as certain that I couldn’t stay in a Tennessee motel in order to stave off death; the irony of that, I presume, is completely obvious. I reached for the glass of Jack Daniel’s and saw my hand quivering in midair. I spoke to myself sharply: Don’t be ridiculous! It kept on shaking.
It was intolerable, more than merely nettlesome, to be here alone now, and I caught sight of the decorator-almond telephone with its little red siren light sticking off the top. Besides the fact that it was well past midnight, how could I explain to anyone I could rouse from sleep what I’d just experienced? I was beginning to think that most of my friends thought I lived on the border of sanity anyway.
I lay back on the bed with a groan. Say, eight hours isn’t too long to spend lying here in the leaden grip of an absurd fear, until it’s light and you can go out and bravely prove the folly of your fantasies, shaking all the way.
If I couldn’t talk to anyone real, I figured I could make someone up and talk to him on paper; God knows I’ve got enough characters in my brain that one of them must be up and willing at this hour.
In the desk drawer were three sheets of motel stationery. Not enough, but a start. I took them back to the bed and started talking. We discussed why at this particular time I would be feeling afraid, why fear was often my co-pilot on my motorcycle. From the moment I’d bought my first bike three years before, I’d managed to pin most of my previously free-floating anxieties on some aspect of machinery. And wasn’t that why, later, I’d realized I wanted one in the first place, to wage war on this fear in the concrete?
At the bottom of the second page, the TV well into a rerun of “All in the Family,” the writing trailed off. I slipped into sleep and dreamt of nothing.
II
There is a beginning to this story, of course, far before the beginning. I was boarding at a prep school in Ohio, the town — a miniature replica of a New England hamlet replete with town green, white steeples, stone wall around a campus of gentle slopes and neatly tended playing fields — was midway between Akron, where I am from, and Cleveland. Although I had opted to attend (pleasing my father, who had also gone there) and escape public school for which I was decidedly not cut out, by my third year I was beginning to feel I had chosen another type of prison instead. I was blissfully happy up in the art room, a sun-filled kingdom ruled by the brilliantly eccentric Mr. Moos, but I was not allowed to spend all my time there as I would have wished. I had to do sports (for which I was equally woefully miscast), science, woodshop (which I flunked, for “refusing” to keep my plane sharpened), and, most loathesome of all, math.
No one has ever erred in calling me stubborn. I have a place, like the end of spring, beyond which I can stretch not a millimeter further. I hit that wall one achingly green spring day, on which I was not uncoincidentally expected in math class at 8:30 a.m. — stupefyingly early, to add injury to insult. I looked at the clock when I opened my eyes, saw it was 8:20 and pulled off the covers. I put on my jeans, forbidden in class, a T-shirt, and put my money and keys in my backpack. I wheeled my Raleigh 10-speed out the door, carried my prize possession bought with hard-won summer babysitting funds down the stairs and outdoors. And I rode past the streams of students heading up the brick walks toward school.
The trip took a half hour in the car. I was thankful in more ways than one that the direction was reversed this time. Approaching the quaint crossroads of Peninsula, a half-mile hill shot down into the town. I coasted, let the bike pick up speed. The wheels were flashing now in the sunlight. I couldn’t go fast enough; I shifted into tenth gear and pedalled as hard as I could, pumping, pumping. The wind dried my teeth clean so my lips stuck to them — that was because I smiled.
When I turned up the drive to my house my mother looked up from her gardening. She hardly seemed surprised to see me. Without her asking, I told her that I simply couldn’t take it anymore. She nodded, and we had some lunch. I think she must have called my father at the office, because when he came home he didn’t seem too stunned either. I was relieved, near elated. I could stay — we would work out the credits and whatnot later. We had the usual nice dinner my mother prepared. Then my parents rose from the table and announced it was time to get going.
Now it was my turn not to be surprised. I had achieved at least that much maturity to understand a certain version of reality.
The next day I was summoned into Sherwin Kibbe’s office. The school’s dean was a dead ringer for Norman Mailer, and he looked frighteningly out from under overhanging silver eyebrows and inquired just what I thought I had been doing. I was several pages into my explanation, which combined a bit of Jefferson with a smattering of Kerouac, when he cut me short. “Well, I think you just wanted to take a ride on a nice day.”
My deeply felt protests met with an offer of demerits and probation. Tears of misunderstood frustration coursed down my cheeks after I shut the door. My issues were high – how could he have leveled me with such an insignificant charge? It was contemptuous.
Sixteen years later and I still ask myself the same question. My answer is still stubborn. So why shouldn’t I run away because it’s a nice day? There is never a better reason.
III
I’d made it as far as the Delaware Water Gap in one day. I’d been riding for 13 hours, and it was now 1 a.m. I was strung out from the numbing consistency of the highways, the same speed, the light, persistent rain that shrouded everything in mist, just like my brain felt. If I could just stay awake and bear down hard enough, I could be home in another two hours.
It was just me and the long-haul trucks now, and nothing broke the dark outside my headlight beam. I didn’t know if I’d been riding for one day or 10. Time had no meaning, except that it was what had exhausted me. I probably could have gone on. Suddenly, though, a thought came into my head, a small distillation of all the biking horror stories I’d ever heard: I was outrunning my headlight’s visibility, and if there were a railroad tie across the lane, I wouldn’t see it till it was too late. I was awake enough to appreciate what that meant.
In a few miles I saw the green Holiday Inn sign rise above the gloom of trees. In the office the woman behind the desk gave me a wide-eyed look as I clomped in in my rainsuit. No, no rooms, all full; there was another place 20 miles away — she’d call. No room in that inn, either, she informed me on putting down the phone. I felt at that moment I was going to collapse.
Actually, she considered, there was one, but the air conditioning had gone out in it. If I didn’t mind….
No, I didn’t. A couple of hay bales would have sufficed. I fell asleep in moments in the sickly, still air.
It was still raining in the morning, and I jerked on the same still-wet clothes and covered them up with the rubber-lined suit. I got an early start.
Two hours later I made the last turn onto my street, and for the first time was forced to slow to a near halt. It had stopped raining. The sun was calling up the hot moisture from the pavement to choke the air. Halfway down the block an earth-mover and police barricades barred the way. Workmen were sweating in their undershirts. I felt the heat rise up from the Guzzi’s cylinders and envelop me. I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, sweatshirt, jeans, leather jacket with winter lining, rainsuit on top of that; my hands were encased in rubber gloves with a thick synthetic liner, and the vents on my helmet were closed against the early morning chill that was an incredible memory now.
The men tried to wave me to a stop. Instead I let out the clutch and came toward them, provoking wilder gesticulations. At the last moment, I jumped the curb onto the sidewalk to pull up in front of my garage. Only then did I apply the brake.
I switched off the key, then pulled off my helmet and sat for a second, steam rising around my neck. The bike let out its little clicks and coos, already cooling in the heat.
This is how 2,000 miles ends. I’d made bigger trips, but not alone. There was a certain purity to this one, a perfect insularity. It was as though I had done all that distance without leaving a mark on any atom in the universe. I had slipped quickly and quietly by, and the wind in my wake only a vague memory of disturbance in the grass by the edge of the road. Maybe we were white dream-cars ourselves. Yet now I was home, and that’s all that mattered.
An inside look at the latest builds from Workhorse Speed Shop.
Brice Hennebert, owner of Workhorse Speed Shop, in Belgium, has been busy during lockdown. After creating Appaloosa V1.0 in 2019 for the Sultans of Sprint then re-working the Indian Scout build into Appaloosa V2.0 for the Baikal Mile Ice Festival, Brice has focussed his attention on building two special dream bikes based on the Indian FTR 1200.
The first build, Black Swan, is a 90’s sports bike concept utilizing the latest parts and materials to make it extremely sporty. The build extensively uses carbon fibre to minimize weight, Ohlins suspension, Beringer brakes, and modern additions such as a quickshifter. The second build, FTR AMA, is based on the 80s era AMA SBK race bikes and Rally cars, inspiring an angular design and will be finished in the classic Martini Racing livery.
Adjustable Öhlins suspension and Beringer brakes are some of the premium parts making up the builds.
Black Swan and FTR AMA Build – Q&A with Brice Hennebert
We caught up with Brice to get an insight into his latest projects, both of which are shaping up to be remarkably interesting, but quite different builds – just as we have come to expect from Workhorse.
It’s been a long time since you came back from Russia after taking Appaloosa V2.0 to the Baikal Mile Ice Speed Festival – that must feel like a dream now, are the memories still strong?
Yes, the memories are really strong. With the lockdown, it was some time after coming back from Russia that I saw many of my friends. Every time I reconnect with a friend they always ask about the trip. So, I get to relive the memories regularly and so they are still strongly alive.
And when Appaloosa finally got back to Belgium after the Russian borders reopened, unpacking the bike and reassembling it meant I got to relive the memories all over again.
Obviously, lockdown has changed the way we all work, but you have still been busy with brand-new builds based on the FTR. What are the concepts behind each project?
The concept for the first build, Black Swan, came a few years ago when I was racing at Wheels & Waves against the Miracle Mike Scout built by The Young Guns. During that time, I had the vision to build a sports bike for road use. But, really sporty, built like a GP bike. It’s deeply inspired by 90’s sports bikes, all made from carbon fibre. That’s what happens when I have total freedom from the commissioners of a project. And I’m even thinking about doing a small series of this bike for sale. It’s pretty unique!
Black Swan Build: building out the clay model.
The second FTR project is based on the 80s era AMA SBK race bikes and Rally cars. Black Swan and the FTR AMA project are for two brothers. The brother that commissioned Black Swan asked me to design a second build for his brother. Something colourful but sharp like a war tank. The only restriction was that it should have a Martini Racing livery.
After a little research and brainstorming, the main influence became the Lancia Delta HF. I’ve mixed this with a bit of the early Bol d’Or race bikes and some muscle bike flavour keeping an upright riding position, close to the original FTR which works so well.
With the Appaloosa v1.0 and v2.0 builds, you had some great partners providing advice, components, fabrication, and tuning skills. Who has stepped up for these FTR builds?
All of them and even more. I went to the Akrapovič factory a few days after the Baikal Mile to work on the Black Swan exhaust. I crossed the border to go home for a few hours and they decided to close the border. That was tight.
Öhlins have shipped me a full set of custom components for Black Swan, quite impressive I have to say. Beringer Brakes is also in the game on both bikes with their new 4+ system. Super light, super nice.
I’m also working with Vinco Racing in Holland, Tim is taking care of all the CNC parts around both bikes. And there’s many of them.
My buddy Robert Colyns from 13.8 Composite is taking care of the carbon fibre fabrication.
On Black Swan, we will be fitting Rotobox carbon fibre wheels, they really are pieces of art! Liteblox Germany have made a bespoke carbon fibre battery for the bike, Cerakote Nl did all the black ceramic treatment. Jeroen from Silver Machine the seat works. Christophe from Forame design did all the 3D modelling from the Clay scan.
Black Swan Build: Clay model ready for CAD scan.
The FTR AMA wheel set is a total eye catcher. I collaborated with Fabio from JoNich Wheels in Italy. The design is based on his Rush wheels but without carbon flanges. They are machined from billet aluminium. And the design made me think about the turbo fans wheels used on the racing Lancia, so that was a perfect choice. They are completed by a Dunlop GP tyre set with this mad 200 section rear tyre.
So, as you can see, I’m not alone on this bike.
We can’t reveal too much at this stage, but from the pictures from the builds so far, designing the bodywork seems to be a fairly intensive process. Can you walk us through the steps, from visualisation and sketches through to a finished piece of the bodywork?
Yes, it’s quite a long journey, here’s roughly the stages for Black Swan:
First, preliminary sketches and a compilation of reference pictures for the details. At this stage I’m drawing the main lines of the bike, the mood.
Then I sent everything to Benny at Axesent in Japan to make proper renders in several versions, with realistic lighting and some livery ideas.
When I was happy at this point, I started 3D modelling. I modelled the bike at full scale in clay directly on the FTR, but only on one side of the bike. This step took about 6 weeks, between the clay structure and perfecting the final shape.
Then I scanned the bike in 3D to start the CAD modelling stage. The scan was used as a starting point to be sure of the proportions, but there was always freedom for new ideas. In the meantime, I worked on the symmetry, details, articulated parts, and assembly systems between the different elements. All told, another 2 months of work.
The next step went to 13.8 Composites. Firstly, they 3D printed all the bodywork from the CAD models. These prints were used as a master for moulding and creating the die that the carbon fibre was laid into.
Once done, adjustments were made between all the parts to be sure that it all fit together and looked perfect.
With the FTR AMA build, rather than start with the clay, here I used direct CAD design based on a 3D scan of the FTR chassis. Then all the body parts were 3D printed and reinforced with carbon fibre.
FTR AMA Build: Modified tail to accommodate twin shocks.
Is this a process that you have used before? You seem really keen, on every project, to try something new and expand your skill set.
This was something totally new to me, at least at this scale. I have done clay shaping before, but not on something so complex.
FTR AMA Build: “The wheel set is a total eye catcher.”
The bodywork is bound to be the main focal point when people first see the bikes, but what else can you reveal about the builds at this stage?
The body of Black Swan is just 1.8 kg for the entire bike. I’ve also decided to fit a few accessories such as a quick shifter and Power Commander. The idea is to initially test the bike with the standard performance in the racing configuration (position, bodywork etc.) 123 hp is enough for road use today in Europe. And if the owner of the bike needs more power then we will go into the engine.
On the FTR AMA, there are two aluminum fuel cells to reach a total capacity of 3.7 gallons with one of the tanks under the seat. Plus, the intake has been redesigned and 3D printed to work with DNA performance air filters. On the chassis side, the tail section has been modified to fit a twin shocks system powered by Öhlins.
Plans are progressing on when and how the bikes will be revealed, but they will certainly make an impact.
Yes, with the events calendar being difficult to predict over the last few months, we’ve had to come up with several plans. I really can’t wait to see the response to these two bikes.
Series (volunteer builders restore old bikes and donate them for fundraising giveaways), and it recently launched Disruptors University.
