Cruzzi Guzzi

CRUZZI GUZZI

The making of a spruced Goose

BRIAN CATTERSON

IT'S 6:30 SATURDAY EVENING, AND the distinctive cadence of a V-Twin's exhaust note reverberates through the tunnel connecting Santa Monica, California, with the real world. The ride to this point—a half-hour’s jaunt on the San Diego Freeway, followed by the five westernmost miles of Interstate 10—has passed by in a blur of illuminating brakelights, but now, on legendary Highway I, with the vastness of the Pacific Ocean to my left and the cliffs towering overhead to my right, the ride has begun in earnest. I hang a right at Sunset Boulevard and begin climbing inland, the final, fleeting moments of a pastel sunset fading behind me, the neon evening beckoning ahead.

I’m a bit self-conscious about my mount, unsure whether its bumblebee appearance will be as much of a hit on The Sunset Strip as it was back in the Cycle World garage. There, where opinions are jaded by the endless procession of exotic motorcycles passing through the doors, reaction to the Moto Guzzi was at first skepti-

cal, later heartwarming. “Hey, an Italian taxi,’’ quipped Jon Thompson. Ron Griewe was his usual diplomatic self. “It'll go over like a turd in a punchbowl,’’ he predicted.

That wa before they'd ridden it; afterwards, they were as enamored of what became known as the “Cruzzi Guzzi’’ as I was on this particular weekend evening. David Edwards summed it up best: “One of the best Harleys I’ve ever ridden,” he joked.

Baptized an unpretentious 1989 California III, this particular Moto Guzzi was the subject of a makeover by Pro Italia Motors (3518 North Verdugo Road, Glendale. CA 91208; 818/249-5707), and christened the “California Custom.” Though a resemblance to one of Milwaukee's finest is unarguable. Pro Italia General Manager Earl Campbell claims this is unintentional. “We didn’t try to make it look like a Harley,” he says. “We tried to make it look like an older Guzzi, but with the slope of the tank and the big fenders, we just couldn’t help it.”

Here on the coastal portion of Sun-

set Boulevard, the Guzzi’s looks don't concern me. Instead, I'm taken by its performance, and I find myself reveling in the torque of its lOOOcc pushrod Twin. Characteristic of a motorcycle with longitudinal crankshaft placement, the Guzzi rocks side-to-side with each blip of the throttle at a standstill, and its shaft drive causes the chassis to rise and fall once underway. The latter sensation, however, isn’t as disturbing on this heavy-metal cruiser as it would be on a sportier bike. More distracting is the long throw of the heel-andtoe shifter, which fortunately rarely needs to be used, the bike preferring to chug along in third or fourth gear.

The Guzzi is adapting well to its newfound habitat, far away from its birthplace in Mandellodel Lario, and I'm beginning to realize why the boys at Pro Italia chose this particular model as a starting point. The business of buying and selling older Guzzi cruisers is booming, says Campbell, and sales of parts for them represent a considerable source of his shop's income. So, given the interest

in Ambassadors, Eldorados and the like, and the lukewarm reception to the base California 111. the California Custom was born.

Surprisingly, the bike has very few aftermarket components; even the floorboards are stock. Rather, the project focused on the elimination of unnecessary hardware and a general cleaning-up of the bike's appearance. First to go were the plastic shrouds surrounding the steering head and starter motor, as well as those behind the floorboards and passenger footpegs. Next, the front and rear crashguards. centerstand and passenger grabrail were ditched, and petite passenger foot peg brackets were machined from billet aluminum to replace the huge, cast-alloy stockers. T he step behind the passenger perch was trimmed off. and both sections of the two-piece seat recovered. Handlebars from an old Eldorado police bike rounded out the accommodations, producing a riding position that's just about perfect, given the Guzzi's mission in life.

Naturally, the stock paint scheme had to go. and while the tank, sidecovers and fenders were being redone in yellow and black, a number of' other details were addressed. Among these were the blacking-out of' the formerly chromed speedo. tach, and sidestand hinge; the installation of' twin running lights, chromed front and rear turnsignals and an “eyelid" above the stock headlight; and the relocation of the stock (and loud) Fiamm horns from just below the fuel tank to between the triple clamps, where their polished grilles blend nicely with the trio of headlamps. Completing the look were the small chromed mirror on the left handlebar end. the polished aluminum master cylinder cap on the right, and yellow sparkplug wires.

Rolling along Sunset Boulevard toward Hollvwood. I romp on the throttle to avoid sharing my lane with a merging truck. Throttle response is instantaneous, with nary a flat spot to be found, thanks to the rejetted twin 30mm Dell’Orto pumper carburetors w h ich, in c o n juncti o n wit h B u b pipes, improve performance over stock, and produce a pleasing exhaust note that's just this side of loud. Though each stroke of the two huge pistons can be felt at idle, the engine is extremely smooth at cruising speeds, and dead-steady on trailin« throttle.

Past the UC'EA campus and the last of the vendors hawking maps to the stars' homes, the road becomes increasingly undulating as it passes through a quaint little neighborhood called Beverly Hills. Here. I'm taken by the G11//1 s plush ride, surprisingly nimble handling and abundance of ground clearance; a cruiser couldn't possibly work this well, could it?

Rounding a blind corner, a traffic light catches me off-guard, and Em delighted to find that the Gu/zi's triple disc brakes—with the company's integral braking system linking the left-front caliper with that of the rear, activated by the brake pedal — bring the bike to a stop with authority. Authority is important for a bike like this. so. with the sun gone and streetlights few and far between along this stretch, it's time to push the emergency flasher switch that's been rewired to activate the dual running lights. Presto, the road's awash in a golden glow —they're certain to see me coming.

As the billboards above The Sunset Strip draw near enough to read, my destination looms ever closer on the left: Ihe Whisky-a-Go-Go. a

rock-and-roll club where Jim Morrison and the Doors, among others, got their start. A row of Harleys is already parked along the curb, the bikes' riders flirting with high-heeled girls in leather mini-skirts. Never mind how well the Guzzi works on the road, it's time for the real test. I hang a U-turn and back the Guzzi into the end of the line. Is it cool enough to be accepted by the Harley guys on The Strip?

Apparently not. For in spite of looking like a refugee from Dick Daev, the Guzzi goes virtually unnoticed. How could this be? Are they

ignoring me? Have I intruded upon their personal space? Do they think mea poseur?

I don't have the heart to ask. Instead, I fire up the motor and slink off into the night, my tail tucked firmly between my legs, the Guzzi deemed a failure.

But as I begin to retrace my steps toward home, a realization: If the Cruzzi Guzzi didn’t cause the sensation I'd hoped it would on The Strip, so be it. It more than made up for that deficiency en route. Besides, I'd much rather ride this bike than park it and field questions from admiring onlookers—that is, had there been any—for I know that this bike is no showpiece: It’s meant to be ridden.

So, with the confident air of impending revenge, I'm prepared to snub the next Harley rider who pulls alongside. Paybacks are hell. Sure enough, as I wait for a stoplight to turn, I hear the familiar thumpthumping of a big Twin approaching from the rear.

“Hey, great-looking ride,” shouts the biker astride a restored Moto Guzzi Eldorado, taking me by surprise.

Maybe the world's not such a bad place, after all.

Smiling, we ride the few remaining miles down Sunset Boulevard side by side, until the flourescent glow of The Strip gives way to the crimson and primrose streaks of the traffic on the San Diego Freeway.

I wave goodbye to my newfound friend, turn onto the entrance ramp, and I can't help but feel ... redeemed. If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, at least I'm not the only one who knows a good thing when he sees it.