Sunday Morning Ride

Sunday Morning Ride

BZZZZZ! IT'S SIX O'CLOCK IN the morning, and as on every other day of the week, I'm awakened by the incessant buzzing of the alarm clock I spring—tumble, anyway—from bed, grapple in the darkness for the alarm-clock button and mindlessly start toward the bathroom...where I suddenly remember that it's Sunday. A quick detour to the kitchen to turn on the coffeemaker, pause to scratch the dog behind the ears, and then to the living room to catch the dying laps of a Formula One GP on TV. Ah, weekends-you gotta love `em.

I don't mind getting up this early on a Sunday because today I've got a date with the Ortega Highway. The road-and a shiny red Moto Guzzi Sport 11 OOi in my garage-beckons, and I'm powerless to resist.

To breakfast, with gusto

BRIAN CATTERSON

As the scent of fresh-brewed Kona wafts through the house, I eschew my usual crew-neck shirt, jeans and top siders in favor of a set of two-piece leathers and roadracing boots. I stir some cream and sugar into a cup of joe, then saunter out to the garage. Helmet.. .check. Gloves. ..check. Tankbag...check. I see that the tankbag's map window is empty, but I won't need one today-I've ridden the Ortega a hundred times, and with luck, I'll ride it a hundred more. I push the Guzzi through the garage door, coast downhill out of earshot of my slumbering neighbors, then click it into gear, dump the clutch and hit the road.

Twenty miles away in Huntington Beach, a similar see nario unfolds at my buddy Mark's house. Later, he admits to having parked CW's Ducati 996 SPS testbike in his living room overnight-and taking photos. We rendezvous at the Union 76 station, as we always do, and although we exchange pleasantries, there's no small talk. There'll be ample time for that later, over breakfast at the Lookout Roadhouse. I top off the Guzzi's tank, thumb the starter but ton, and as the big V-Twin explodes into life, the words to an `80s Rush song echo through my head: Fire up the willing engine, responding with a roar! Tires spitting gravel, I commit my weekly crime...

Okay, so it's a crime to speed on public roads. But it seems criminal to me that at this wee hour, with nobody else on the road, we're expected to abide by some speed limit set by a CalTrans employee driving a white van filled with orange cones. So we don't.

Instead, we abide by the laws of physics-and, perhaps more importantly, common sense. Unlike in racing, where speed is determined by one's choice of sprockets and main jets, here it's limited by how far we can see down the road. Even on long straights, we show some restraint, keeping our speed below 80 mph; there's no skill involved in holding the throttle to the stop in a straight line, so why take unnecessary chances? If we wanted to see how fast these bikes would go, we'd take them out to a desolate stretch of road somewhere, which the Ortega most definitely is not-even early on a Sunday morning.

Spanning the 30-mile distance between Lake Elsinore and the city of San Juan Capistrano, State Route 74 (the Ortega's official name) isn't the best sportbike road in Southern Cal ifornia, but it's the most convenient for those living in Orange County. Whereas the Angeles Crest and Muiholland Highway are more than an hour's ride from O'Co., the Ortega is smack-dab on the eastern frontier-just 20 minutes from my home, barely enough time for the caffeine to kick in.

But while the Ortega may not be that long in terms of miles, it packs a lot into its length. It begins in a suburban neighborhood, then crosses a wide farming valley before casually beginning to sweep up and down hills. In time, the pavement narrows, the turns tighten and as the elevation rises, SoCal's native desert scrub brush gives way to lush forests. Eventually, you crest the 2000-foot summit, and then plummet though a series of switchbacks to Lake Elsinore, a man-made body of water so shallow that I once hit my head on the bottom after falling off a jet ski.

A sign welcoming visitors to the Cleveland National Forest is my cue to quit daydreaming, and as Mark and I cross the bridge over San Juan Canyon, we get down to business. Though a sign stating "Double Fine Zone" warns that we'll pay twice as much for our sins-provided we're caught-we pay it little heed, because from here on out, the road will demand our full attention. Sheer cliffs, rock walls and guardrails line every inch of the way, all poised to extract a severe toll from anyone making a mistake.

But it's those very same rock walls that urge us on, the sensation of speed amplified by their close proximity, the thundering exhaust notes of our thoroughbreds reverberating off the hard surfaces.

Again, I hear the song: Wind in my hair, Sh~fling and dr~fling, Mechanical music, Adrenalin surge...

The next few miles unfold in a wash of red cliffs, weathered gray pavement and double-yellow lines. Here, I can't help feeling a bit jealous of Mark, his short, taut, lightweight Ducati snapping effortlessly from side to side, carrying more speed into and out of the corners-and gradually pulling away from the Guzzi and me. This comes as no surprise, because the Ducati 996 SPS is, quite literally, a street-legal racing Superbike. Its 90-degree V-Twin engine has been refined over three generations, beginning as an air-cooled, carbureted, two-valve-per-cylin der unit before evolving into its present liquid-cooled, fuelinjected, four-valve-per-cylinder state. Naturally, it's equipped with Ducati's trademark desmodromic valve-actua tion system, with belt-driven cams having long since replaced the old bevel-gear-and-towershaft setup. At 996cc, the SPS boasts the largest Ducati engine ever offered to the public, and with 115 horsepower at the rear wheel, it's by far the most powerful. With a list price of $23,885, it had better be! In comparison, the Moto Guzzi Sport 1 lOOi is positively antiquated, tracing its roots back to a weird 3x3 contraption built for the Italian military in 1960. But that's okay, because at $1 1,990, it's half as expensive as its more-modem counter part. Like the Duck, the Goose is powered by a fuel-injected, 90-degree V-Twin, only its engine sits crossways in the frame, like a BMW Boxer with its cylinders tilted upward. Actually, the Guzzi has quite a lot in common with an old BMW, right down to its air cooling, two pushrod-actuated valves per cylinder and shaft drive. As such, engine per formance is a bit lacking, with just 76 horses finding their way to the ground.

As old-fashioned as the Moto Guzzi is, though, it still gets with the programparticularly on a street ride such as this, where acceleration isn't near ly as important as handling. What the long, comparatively heavy Sport 1 lOOi lacks in maneuverability, makes up in stability; if ever there were a bike that cornered on rails, this is it. Though its can tilevered single-shock rear suspension harks back to an era before the Ducati's modern rising-rate setup, the Guzzi is impervious to the resulting rear-wheel patter, flatly refusing to stray off-line. The price for that stability, though, is heavy steering; it takes a lot of muscle to change direction.

As we approach the first of the sweeping carousel corners, Mark waves me by, signaling that it's my turn to lead. "All right!" I think to myself, relishing the notion of strafing the apexes at near-triple-digit speeds, my knee mere millimeters off the deck.

The song again: Well-weathered leather, Hot metal and oil, The scented country air, Sunlight on chrome, The blur of the landscape, Every nerve aware...

A11 too soon, we arrive at Cariso Village, site of a biker bar, a general store and a couple of cabins. We cruise slowly through "town," as well as the `~campground beyond it, before again upping the pace for the final descent to Lake Elsinore. We ride right past the Lookout, noticing just a few bikes in the parking lot, their owners kicking tires and benchracing while sipping coffee from styrofoam cups.

A quick blitz down and back up the newly paved switchbacks, and we return to the restaurant, thoroughly invigo rated from our morning's adventure. We stroll inside, enjoy a leisurely breakfast of scrambled eggs on pita bread, then emerge from the dining room to find the parking lot buzzing with activity, with bikes and riders arriving every few minutes.

Not surprisingly, a small group of admirers has surround ed the Ducati and Guzzi, their eyes poring over every con tour. To the casual onlooker, these are just pretty red motorcycles, but to the informed, these are the tools of journeymen sport riders. Only a few notice that the Ducati isn't a standard-issue 916, the subtle plaque on its upper triple-clamp signifying that this is number 60 of 200, just 50 of which were imported to the U.S. to meet the AMA's Superbike homologation requirements.

Making our way back to our machines, we field the inevitable questions, then pull on our helmets and gloves and commence our return trip. We trade bikes and take it a lot slower on the way back, on the lookout for the ever-pre sent police and the irrepressible "squids" whose all-too-fre quent accidents have brought on the heat.

True to form, there are whole groups of them coming the other way now, some going way too fast, riding too close together and too close to the centerline. Hopefully, they'll survive long enough to become mature, responsible motor cyclists. Guys like.. .well, like Mark and me.

Of course, to the public at large, we are the same-miscre ants one and all, needless risk-takers bent on self-destruc tion, all in the pursuit of.. .what, an adrenalin rush? Couldn't we get the same thrill from a nice, safe video game?

I think not. Virtual reality is fine for those who want to live in a virtual world, with virtual stimuli. But sport riders like Mark and me prefer the real thing, even if it means fac ing very real consequences. It makes it that much more criti cal not to screw up!

Some, having toed the waters of so-called "high-risk" sports, count their blessings, swear off such behavior in the future and vow to begin living a more sedate life. Me, I can't wait `til next Sunday.