Viva Motogiro
Viva Motogiro
Five laps of scenic, vintage California inspired by one lap of vintage ltaly...with nothing lost in translation
ALLAN GIRDLER
JANE AUSTEN’S FAMOUS DICTUM NOTWITHstanding, some universal truths are reluctantly acknowledged.
As in, during dinner on the first day of Motogiro America, the inaugural running of the transplanted vintage Italian road rally, each rider at our table admitted, during cross-examination, thinking this is for fun, it’s a new event, I won’t worry about keeping score.
Then, after the scores . were posted, each rider who hadn’t botched the day wondered, er, how big are the trophies?
As has been famously said: There are no good sports, there are only good actors.
And the stage on which we were beginning to strut and fret? Begin with the original Giro d ’Italia-, literally the Cup of Italy, which ran from 1914 until point-to-point races 'on public roads were outlawed on the Italian mainland in 1957. The race peaked post-WWII, when Italy was a hotbed of sports motorcycles, small ones with 125, 175 or 250cc engines, popular for tax reasons and because Italy (indeed most of Europe) was and is dependent on imported oil.
Next, decades later, tens of thousands of motorcycle fans discovered the lure of vintage, antique and classic machines. With rising interest came rising prices, until-we are now close to the present-some makes and models have become worth more dead than alive; restored motorcycles whose owners sit in lawn chairs at the concours rather than in the saddle on the road.
There are those who deplore this trend, so in 2001 an association of Italian-brand, vintage and local clubs organized a revived Motogiro d’ltalia. In the form of a vintage rally, it would run from town to town for five days, but with time checks and special tests instead of sheer speed.
Motogiro (pronounced jeero, not gearo) attracted enthusiasts worldwide, including from the U.S., and inspired similar events, albeit the founders say the name is licensed, and if it isn’t the full five days it’s not the real thing.
What we have here, though, is the real thing. What we rlnn’t have are the usual suspects.
Political, business and tourist leaders in the Monterey, California, area-Cannery Row, Mazda Raceway Laguna Seca and so forth-are pleased to have the MotoGP race in July and would like to create a motorcycle week, as seen in Sturgis, Daytona Beach and elsewhere.
They were joined by Ducati, Vespa, Piaggio and the Italian Trade
Commission, plus guys like Burt Richmond of Lotus Tours to coordinate things, and there were members of vintage clubs, most emphatically the Ducati Vintage Club, along with more staff and volunteers than can be named here.
This is some project. There were celebrities: Giuliani Maoggi, winner of the real Giro in 1956 and still fast on two wheels; Paul Smart, who won the 1972 Imola 200 for Ducati; Cook Neilson and Phil Schilling, whose 1977 Daytona Superbike win took Ducati from the art theater to the multiplex; and Dave Roper, the winningest vintage roadracer ever.
And-not before time-those of us who do enjoy riding old bikes and wouldn’t mind a brief moment of glory.
Not every vintage enthusiast could enter, as in you need at least a week off work, more if you must haul a long way, and there’s a stiffish $2400 entry fee that also covers room and board. Against that, the rules for eligibility were loose: motorcycle operator’s license, a street-legal motorcycle and insurance. There were classes for Vintage bikes (pre-1958, sub-175cc and obviously the most popular), Supersports (pre-1968, sub-250cc), ’70s Sport (Twins, sub-1000cc), Scooters and Touring (modern bikes, not timed or scored). Eighty-two official entries in all.
We were riding Ducati, Parilia, MV Agusta, Mondial, Montesa, Moto Morini, Motobi, Güera, Moto Guzzi,
Benelli, NSU, Bultaco, Honda, Triumph, BSA, Yamaha, BMW, Kawasaki, Vespa, Lambretta, Piaggio and HarleyDavidson. If the event program is right, only 14 of the bikes weren’t Italian.
Riders came from California, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont, Colorado, Illinois, Texas, North Dakota, Virginia, Indiana, Michigan, Idaho, New York, Oregon, Arizona and Washington state, plus England and Italy; not only that, the Italian contingent rented the lone Harley, a bagger. When not in Rome, the guy said, why act Roman?
Day 1
The actual rally is basic: Riders clock-out, two to a minute, ride a specified route (averaging 150-plus miles a day) in a specified time, clock-in at checkpoints and ride an agility test, around or between rubber cones, within a target time given in seconds, maybe 10, maybe 18.5.
So off we all went, from Monterey's storied Cannery Row at 9 a.m. on Sunday, winding through city streets and out to Laguna Seca, where we got a lap on the fabled track.
And here the fun began. Your obedient reporter has raced this track, two wheels and four, modern and vintage, and can say firsthand that it’s been widened, smoothed and improved thanks to world-class events like the MotoGP. Riding Mr. Editor Edwards’ BSA Spitfire Scrambler 650 (see sidebar),
I caned it up the hill, the easy part, and came gently to the top of the Corkscrew to find the flagman fervently signaling More Gently Still.
Which 1 did, and so did most of the group.
Meanwhile, all riders were wearing numbered bibs. We all looked alike, so when one Ducati came hurtling around the track at full racing speed, the corner workers didn’t just wave him slower, they flagged him off the track entirely!
How could they have known it was Paul Smart, worldclass racer in complete control?
The only rider who crashed?
Dave Roper, no less. He was riding his own Moto Guzzi Airone 250, a mild-mannered Single. He'd just replaced an oversize modern tire with a genuine 50-year-old NOS tire.
“I kept telling myself, ‘It’s an old tire,’ and then I said,
‘Oh heck, go for it.’The next thing 1 knew, swish, it spun around.”
It was a clean lowside, no harm done. Roper remounted and finished his lap, “...laughing so hard I nearly fell off again.”
We left the track and rode through farm and vineyard country to the agricultural town of Gonzalez, where the Rotary Club served lunch and the police directed traffic. There’s no doubt that a zealous officer could have found, oh, a missing mirror, a light that didn’t, or might have seen a rolled stop sign, even a touch of speed. But here and elsewhere throughout the rally, the motto truly was Serve and Protect, not Cite and Collect.
That night we ended back in Monterey, with most of us rally novices working out that we didn't need clocks and rollcharts and maps; all we needed was to find someone who knew what to do next and tag along.
Day 2
Double luck for me here. I was #210, the last entrant in ’70s Sports, and my starting-minute partner was Vicki Smith, #300, first scooterist and a rider in all eight of the Italian Giros, someone who knew the game. I also got to follow #209, Rob Diepenbroek, a club racer on a Ducati 860 GT, and #208, Ruud Van Wijnen, on a Benelli Sei-not exactly a Twin but unmistakably Italian, allowed in at the promoters’ discretion. And, yes, it’ll speed things up if I just call my partners 208 and 209.
We headed down California 1, the world-famous Pacific Coast Highway, through Big Sur. Motorcycle country by definition and a match for any road or scene in the world and, yes, I’ve ridden the Rockies, the Dolomites, the Pyrenees and the Alps.
The area was the recent scene of massive wildfires, and the highway and parks were busy with firefighters and gear, plus campers and tourists and...they all waved. Amazing.
On reflection, all these riders on little old motorcycles, wearing numbered bibs, made it clear we were on a mission, and everyone who saw us enjoyed the parade, the next best thing to the arrival of a hot-air balloon.
Up a narrow and winding old road, Nacimiento-Fergusson, through a military reservation where we showed our papers, lunch at old San Antonio Mission, across more motorcycle roads to Paso Robles, where vineyards are the local industry and dinner included all the samples we could handle, okay, plus maybe one more glass.
Day 3
Starting line conclusion #1: The rally routes and times have been carefully and skillfully done to allow the slowest rider on the smallest bike to finish on time without risk. So the rest of us can ride easy, take breaks and clock in and out on the minute, which means the agility tests will decide winners and losers. And oh, my new friend #209 is leading the class with 15 or so penalty seconds, Edwards and his T140 Bonneville (see “Tribute Triumph,” CW, October, 2007) are second, 5 penalty points behind, and I,yeehaw, am in third, a couple of markers worse than David. The rest of our class, seven guys, has fumbled into three digits. I’m gonna be on the box!
Conclusion #2: Competition aside, our shared enthusiasm has made us all friends. The man who can take a week off because he owns the company is sharing parts and advice and lunch with the man who can take the day off because he has no job. All that matters is they’re both on old Ducati Singles.
We headed out of Paso Robles into the hills, horse and cattle ranches. The organizers must have Googled “Rural California roads without gas stations” and laid out the route along those lines; we have gone as far as 110 miles and not seen one station. I squeak into the final checkpoint today, but another rider runs dry three times, his riding group siphoning what they can spare.
The road angels, volunteers with bikes and trucks, tools and supplies, are doing wonderful work. We catch riders who started maybe 20 minutes before us and the angels are on the
scene, fixing when they can, hefting the bikes onto the truck if they can’t.
Even so, at the end of Day 3 we had 64 finishers, the others having dropped out. Several old Singles have miraculously turned into newer Twins and even a Four-backup bikes aren’t scored but at least the owners get to enjoy the rest of the ride.
We’ve all read the rules, so we know putting a foot down in the agility tests costs */io of a point, while stopping means a full 10. So when his engine quits mid-test, one rider gives two mighty kicks and loses only a fraction as he glides silently between the cones. A Lambretta rider wows the crowd doing a test with one hand on the grip, the other clutching his cell phone to time the run.
Day 4
This is the rally’s low point. We leave town on a small, old, rough and isolated canyon road with blind hairpin turns. Frank Scurria, Ducati-mounted veteran racer, uses the entire road on a downhill and slams into a stopped truck; it’s hard against the shoulder but the road is so narrow it’s partly on the pavement. He suffers multiple fractures and bruised lungs, but luckily one of the rally’s riding doctors is just minutes behind. Scurria is tended to and rushed to hospital, where he’s reported stable but in need of several surgeries. That night he’s alert enough to read the big Get Well placard we all sign.
Sobering is the word that fits here. From then on, rough roads get the respect they deserve.
On one uphill, riding with #208, CW reader and website blogger Michael Fruciano (see his daily rally reports at www. cycleworld.com/motogiro), we close on a line of cars and I wonder who’s holding things up?
It’s us...well, it’s the smaller vintage bikes, and I am reminded that they are the spirit of the occasion, too bad it some folks have to wait for a chance to pass. Later in the rally, when two lanes become four, I am blasted by a passing van, driven by a woman who gives me the glare of a mom late for soccer practice. I give her a cheery wave, the best revenge.
Lunch is in the old-time Pozo Saloon. The Edwards Triumph arrives late; its fuse holder has burned up, shutting off the electrons, while somehow sparing the fuse itself. David bodges a roadside repair, made more permanent at lunch when Roper affects a neat graft with safety wire and electrical tape. All is well and David clocks-in on time.
Day 5
Cream rises to the top. Not long after the start, the rapid guys sweep past, headed for a day as fast as prudence allows. Water seeks its own level. Led by Fruciano, #208, #209 and I settle down to 50-60 mph, an easy cruise for the BSA, the Benelli and the Ducati. We know we will catch the little classic bikes in due course and when we do, we take careful time in passing, no need to be rude.
We head up a wide river valley, almost a delta. I wish I spoke enough Italian to ask our visitors their impression of the miles of green vegetables and vineyards stretching to the horizon. This really is the breadbasket and we feed the world.
Then it’s ranchland, cattle country. One of our groups arrives at a ranch just as real cattle-even longhorns, no kidding-are being herded across the highway by real cowboys, maybe even a real cowgirl, it’s hard to tell with those big hats. We silence our motors, but the cattle skitter and we’ve interrupted honest work, for which we apologize.
The head wrangler drawls, “Heck, no problem, gives the dogs some training...”
Off we go, reflecting in my case that if there are indeed many universes, this has to be one of the best.
The organizers have warned us not to head straight for the hotel on this last day because they have ways to catch us and, sure enough, there’s the rally’s first, and only, surprise check. Roper’s Moto Guzzi cracks an oil line, fixed with cold weld, but he’s lost lots of oil. Edwards reaches into his backpack, whips out a quart and, once again, the day is saved.
For the past few days, the rest of us have been razzing the leader, the man who gets to wear the yellow jersey-or in this case, a wildly colored tie-dye T-shirt. From Day 1, the top dog has been Steve Flach, riding (yes) a Honda CL 160. Each night we’d ask him what he planned to do with his winnings. Being a quiet and affable chap, he reminded us that he could still lose and, anyway, there are no winnings.
What we had, as they say in the newspaper business, was dog bites man. Flach’s Honda was fast and agile and reliable, he’s ridden rallies before and, for the kicker, he has the equivalent of perfect pitch. He can fry chicken, whistle “Dixie” and count off a perfect one-elephant...two-elephant.. .while weaving between cones, all at the same time.
Sure enough, Flach won overall; plus, it wasn’t until he walked up to collect the placard that he learned there was, in fact, a real prize. Thanks to the sponsors, he’d won a trip for two to Italy, all expenses paid!
Further, Rob #209 won the ’70s Sport class despite his Duck’s long wheelbase and clip-ons, with David second and yers truly third.
Best of all, the sponsors, organizers, civic leaders, riders, volunteers and staff were all so pleased with the inaugural running they promised a repeat. As the prayer says, Next Year in Monterey. □
