It is the 1920s. The heady period following the First World War has, without a doubt, produced some of the most iconic and beautiful European vehicles the world would see until well into the latter half of the 20th century. The futuristic minimalism of Art Deco has superceded the organic forms of Art Nouveau, and set the template for the clean, flowing forms of Streamline Moderne that would follow. Storied marques like Bugatti, Delahaye, Talbot and countless others are producing spectacular automobiles that will define the melding of art and design for decades to come. It is a definition that will be cut short by the economic downturn of the Great Depression and the destruction wrought by the Second World War.

Motorcycles, too, benefit from this all-too brief period of carefree optimism. French marques in particular are flourishing, producing modern and beautifully styled machines that attempt to elevate the motorcycle from mere populist transportation into the realm of luxurious motoring - the likes of which hadn't been seen amongst the crude, noisy, and messy contraptions that defined motorcycling at the turn of the 20th Century.


Amongst these forward-thinking designs one machine in particular has captivated designers and collectors who appreciate how the refinement of the period was applied in the two-wheeled realm. The Majestic is one of the most intriguing of these clean, streamlined motos that, for a brief instant, promised to offer the beauty and style that was associated with the luxurious automotive brands. It was a moment when motorcycles might have caught up to the innovation and grace of the finest cars, but instead the experiment faded into obscurity. It remained a short-lived diversion in the history of the motorcycle, but for a time machines like the Majestic offered something special to riders seeking something more sophisticated.





As is the case with many innovative machines, the Majestic story begins with the vision of a single person. Georges Roy was a French industrialist and engineer born in 1888 who achieved success in the textile business - specifically in knitting and sewing equipment. He was, however, an early adopter of motorcycling at the turn of the 20th Century - reportedly his first machine was a Werner, a Parisian machine that introduced the term "Motocyclette" in 1897.

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By the 1920s Roy had developed a notion that the crude motorcycles of the day could be much improved with a more rigid chassis that dispensed with the usual brazed/welded tube structures shared with bicycles. Labour intensive and fragile when subjected to the rough roads and rigid suspensions of the period, Roy's solution was a pressed-steel structure that shared more in common with automobiles than it did with bicycles. Using steel panels riveted together into a monocoque chassis that did double-duty as frame and bodywork, Roy's vision eliminated complex welding operations and simplified manufacture to the assembly of a few relatively simple panels; the most complicated part of manufacture would be investing in stamping machines to churn out these panels. This idea was introduced in 1923 under the Anglicized name New Motorcycle (some sources note that Roy's patent was applied for in 1925 or 1926, but most note 1923 as the year of introduction of the New Motorcycle). Production began in Orléans but later moved to Chartenay sometime in the mid-1920s, with the first bikes hitting the market in 1927.

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The New Motorcycle was well ahead of its time, featuring an extremely rigid chassis composed of formed steel plates riveted together in a sort of semi-circular spar arrangement that connected the steering head directly to the rigidly mounted rear axle, enclosing the rear wheel in a streamlined fender and suspending a Chaise single-cylinder engine (displacing 350cc and 500cc) between a pair of wings that extended below the main spine, with cooling/access holes cut into either side of these lower wings. The fuel tank is hidden beneath the resulting structure with only a filler cap poking through the upper spine just behind the gauges, which were also mounted into the frame. The result was a peculiar semi-faired machine that exposed some of the mechanical bits but hid others, all beneath what was a rather brilliant bit of framework that combined or supported as many components together as possible within a single unit. It was also rather pretty, with sweeping leading-edge curves combined with a triangulated form between the steering head and rear wheel. The body-coloured blades of the girder front suspension, also made from pressed steel, further accentuated the streamlined design.

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Being a clever and forward thinking design introducing elements that would not become the norm for decades to come, its little wonder the New Motorcycle was a commercial failure. Roy was undeterred, however, and went back to the drawing board.

The result following the failure of the New Motorcycle was the subject of today's profile, the Majestic. It was more radical than the New Motorcycle in terms of styling and design, while being more conservative in its engineering. Despite its fully-enclosed appearance, the bodywork of the Majestic is not structural and the fully unitized monocoque structure of the New Motorcycle was not carried over. The Majestic features a cosmetic shell that encloses the running gear, beneath which which is a pair of underslung square frame rails riveted together with flat bulkheads at the front and rear. Each right angle joint is gusseted for additional strength. It is an arrangement not unlike the body-on-frame automobiles of the era, resulting in a low-slung chassis reminiscent of earlier designs like the Ner-A-Car. Also shared with the Ner-A-Car was a hub-centre steering arrangement. It was unusual but not unprecedented.  Roy himself later admitted to being inspired by the Ner-A-Car while designing the Majestic, aiming to create a similar but more elegant "moto-voiture" that offered some automotive elegance and comfort to the rider tired of crude "moto-bicyclettes".

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While the engineering of the Majestic might have been relatively conventional, what was unprecedented was the styling, the hallmark of the Majestic to this day. All the oily bits were fully enclosed under louvered panels, with partially enclosed fenders covering the wheels at both ends. The rider was completely isolated from the grime and muck of the running gear and powertrain, perched upon a sprung saddle and controlling the machine via levers and bars that poke through the all-encompassing body.


As common for the time rear suspension was nonexistent, while the front was suspended on a pair of sliding pillars somewhat like the sprung-hub rear ends that would precede swinging arm arrangements. Steering is accomplished via a horizontal rod on the right side, connected to the vertical steering column, which acts upon a curved lever pivoting around the right suspension pillar. The front hub does double duty, serving as the brake drum and the steering mechanism, with a kingpin arrangement stuffed within the wheel bearings that very much resembles a finer and larger interpretation of the Ner-A-Car system. As no outside firms offered anything suitable for the Majestic, this complex hub was manufactured in-house.

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Presented in 1929, the prototype Majestic (which was reported as Roy's personal machine) featured an air-cooled 1000cc longitudinal four-cylinder engine from a 1927-28 Cleveland 4-61. This would not remain for production, however. While at least two Majestics were built with a 750cc JAP V-twin (arranged, like a much later Moto-Guzzi , with the Vee transverse and the heads poking through the bodywork) and records note that JAP singles, a Chaise Four, and at least one Gnome et Rhone flat twin were also employed,  the majority of production machines coming out of Chartenay featured air-cooled Chaise engines. These were overhead valve singles featuring unit two or three-speed gearboxes operated by hand-shift, available in 350cc and 500cc displacements. Distinctive for their single pushrod tube that resembles a bevel tower (but contains a pair of tightly-spaced parallel pushrods) and external bacon-slicer flywheel, these powerplants were a favourite of French manufacturers during the interwar period and were used by a variety of marques in lieu of producing their own engines.


The base price of the Majestic was 5200 Francs for a 350 with chain final drive; an extra 500 Francs netted you optional shaft drive. An additional option that is rarely seen on surviving examples was a fine "craquelure" paint option that was applied by skilled artisans. It involves a process of deliberately screwing up the paint job in the most controlled and flawless way possible, applying a contrasting top coat over a base using incompatible paints that will cause the top coat to crack in a uniform fashion, something like a well-aged oil painting or antique piece of furniture. The result is spectacular - and perhaps a bit tacky, giving the machine the appearance of a lizard skin handbag.

Image Source Early and late chassis designs. Note the heavy frame rails of the early pattern in the foreground vs the monocoque tub of the later pattern in the background.

Sometime soon after production began another altogether different Majestic was introduced. Featuring a shorter wheelbase and modified bodywork but still using the same 350 or 500cc engines, these examples appear similar to the originals but differ in one important respect - they use a monocoque chassis. Once again Roy revisited the idea he put forward with the New Motorcycle, but executed it in an entirely different fashion. Gone were the heavy and bulky lower frame rails of the first Majestics, in their place was a pair of stamped steel side panels that encompassed the lower half of the front fender and the louvered engine covers. As before bulkheads at the front and rear joined the two halves, but a flat underside replaced the open H of the original beam frame, creating a closed tub below the powertrain. Access to the mechanical bits was maintained with a removable perforated semi-cylindrical cover that sat ahead of the driver's seat and behind the fuel tank integrated into the front fender.


These monocoque machines can be easily distinguished from the earlier Majestics by examining the number and arrangement of the body panels; the earlier beam frame chassis has separate covers over the frame rails and central side panels that are split from the fenders, while the monocoque machines have only a single panel on each side.  


Roy's apparent interest in the motorcycle industry began to wane at this point and in 1930 he sold the whole operation to Etablissements Delachanal in Joinville-le-Pont. Delachanal were known for their production of Dollar motorcycles, using the same Chaise powerplants that Roy had put to good use in the New Motorcycle and the Majestic. Unfortunately for Majestic (and fortunately for Roy, who got out of the game while the going was still good) the Great Depression hit Europe hard and in 1931 Delachanal was absorbed into Omnium Métallurgique et Industriel, who were the parent company of Chaise. The Majestic limped along until 1933, when production was ceased due to poor sales and high manufacturing costs. Exact production is unknown but a few hundred examples is probably a safe guess.


Riding the Majestic was unusual for several reasons. Steering was a bit vague, an endemic problem with hub-centre designs to this day, but impeccably stable at speed. It was also agile and light footed in a way that similar machines, like the Ner-A-Car, were not. In an era barely beyond the age of flimsy motorized bicycles with questionable geometry the Majestic would have been a revelation in its refinement, if not a revolution. The relatively low weight, around 350 pounds, carried with a very low centre of gravity made for tidy handling that was more than up to the meagre output offered by the Chaise powerplants. Otherwise it is remarkably unremarkable considering its appearance. It offered all the qualities that were par for the course during that era - usually offered by machines that were far less expensive.


Nowadays the Majestic is heralded as a masterpiece of Art Deco design, a refined and beautiful machine from the gilded age of motoring, something so painfully exquisite that its failure to catch on is a mystery. Or at least that seems to be the consensus among us historians. No one seems to notice that the Majestic is a sheet metal sausage with wheels awkwardly grafted to either end, a goofy oversized spotlamp perched ahead of a set of messy controls stuffed through the bodywork. Nor do they point out that the construction and design of the Majestic is relatively simple and far from the coachbuilt grandeur of similarly praised autos of the period. Finally they not consider that the Majestic was targeting a clientele that didn't really exist: the gentlemanly rider who might desire a superior (read: expensive) machine as a stablemate to their elegant automobiles.


This elusive niche for well-crafted, boutique machine remains a deadly trap for many manufacturers who dare to move beyond the bounds of the motorcycle as plebeian transportation or vehicle of thrilling populist escapism. Then, as now, the motorcycle was a machine of the people - and any attempt to push a two wheeled device into the realm of luxurious motoring was almost certainly doomed to failure, or at least perpetual struggle. During the early decades of motoring this was doubly so; the motorcycle was a machine for those who couldn't afford a car or the taxes thereupon (depending on jurisdiction). They were utilitarian and simple, inexpensive and crude. They represented motoring for the masses and producing a machine that sought to elevate them beyond that was an ambitious gamble.


For a very brief period during the 1920s it appeared that this shift could occur. Fast and elegant fours were the halo machines of the era. Styling progressed beyond the flat surfaces and sharp angles of the machines of the 1910s. A bit of elegance was trickling down to even the most pedestrian machines, and unusual designs like the Majestic began to pop up around the world. It looked like the motorcycle might very well evolve beyond its humble roots.


Of course we all know what happened next. The Great Depression put a damper on anything frivolous or expensive in motorcycling. Those companies who had dipped their toes into the upper end of the motorcycle market quickly rationalized their model ranges and manufacturing to survive, eliminating expensive, complicated models to focus on simpler fare. The Four disappeared from the market for decades. Many of the small manufacturers that were cluttering up an admittedly crowded market disappeared altogether. The Majestic was just one victim of many during this period; it did well to survive as late as 1933 under Delachanal/Ominium's parentage, as most machines didn't make it that late into the Depression.

With all that being said, is the Majestic truly worthy of the praise that has been heaped upon it?


It is, undoubtedly, a machine that has captured the imagination of many who see it as a potential addition to the pantheon of early 20th century design. It's rather unremarkable in terms of engineering and construction, styling aside; Georges Roy's earlier New Motorcycle was a far better barometer of things to come, predicting the style and design of machines that would emerge during the 1930s and beyond. The Majestic has far less impact and was more of a curiosity than predictor of trends to come.


This doesn't make the Majestic unworthy of study and appreciation. It is a fascinating machine from a period when anything appeared to be possible; a period cut short by economic collapse and the development of a destructive war. Georges Roy's brilliance as a designer is unquestionable, and deserves more praise than he ever earned during his lifetime. Values of the few surviving machines (perhaps numbering in the tens, but not likely into the triple digits) have been steadily increasing. Many can appreciate the unusual elegance of the Majestic and wonder if such a machine could have set a precedent had circumstances turned out differently. It may not rival the craftsmanship and exclusivity of a coachbuilt automobile from the same era, but it does throw a little artistry into the otherwise utilitarian realm of the motorcycle. So feel free to enjoy the Majestic as a little bit of elegance floating on the sea of staid machines that clutter up the history books.

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Interesting Links

The Vintagent rides a Majestic
JAP V-Twin powered Majestic
Moto Collection New Motorcycle 500
Cyber Motorcycle Majestic
Bonhams Auction Details of a 1930 500cc Majestic with sidecar
German Wikipedia entry on The Majestic
Bike-Urious post on a 1929 350 Majestic, which ended up being the one I took photos of at the Barber Museum
French Wikipedia entry on The Majestic
1931 Majestic 350 Bonhams details via Classic Driver
Overview of French marques from the Golden Age of French motorcycling 1914-1940

Merry Christmas to all my loyal OddBikers!

Sweet Jesus it's been a while since I've written anything.

It's not for lack of desire, it's due to a general lack of energy and inspiration following a day/week/month of working my ass ragged and trying to maintain some semblance of a personal life outside of my day job. Plus I got a new old car that needed sorting out over the course of many weekends.


I also spent some time rebuilding a 1993 GSXR 1100 WP in my living room, which I dubbed Project Vanilla Ice. I bought the bike in pieces through a friend of mine who found it on Kijiji in Red Deer, Alberta. It was complete and in fine shape aside from being torn apart and put into boxes, allegedly due to a transmission issue the owner never bothered to fix. I lucked out as the worst of it was a toasted clutch pack and some moderate dog wear on second gear. I had the whole thing restored in a few months and wheeled it out of my apartment just in time for the first month of Spring.


I immediately sold it after a mere 200 kms of shakedown rides when I came to the sudden realization that I have no desire to own a fat old Japanese superbike.


It could have made a neat restomod project but I had zero interest in putting any more money into it after I finished the rebuild. I quickly realized it was a pig-heavy brute that had the chassis tying itself into knots anytime the rider attempted to do anything other than accelerate in a straight line on a smooth road. It wasn't even exciting in its general terribleness, just rather soft and fluffy with wobbly vagueness coming on at anything more than city street pace. Even that once monstrous engine is pretty tame by modern standards. Not slow, but far from fast. It had no qualities endearing enough to make me want to keep it around. So off it went, netting me a modest profit and the satisfaction of rescuing a basket case from oblivion. It'll serve its new owner well.


I've been pondering the future of OddBike and my career as a freelance moto journalist. I'm finding it increasingly difficult to devote myself to my writing as I get older, my mind getting mushier as I approach my mid 30s. Add to that the exponential growth of the complexity of my profiles - my techniques have become more detailed and "professional" while my subjects have become more obscure, making the prospect of hammering out a quality article rather daunting. I have a half dozen stalled pieces sitting in limbo due to a simple lack of sources.

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There's only so much bullshitting I can do to fill in the blanks before someone is going to notice. I'm of the mindset that quality always beats quantity, which is a fine excuse to spend months working on a piece without filling my site with drivel in the meantime. The OddBike Facebook and Instagram pages make good repositories for the fluffy stuff anyway.


But lately I haven't had much good stuff come my way. Each subject I've plucked out of my to-do list has netted a bunch of dead ends. It's frustrating because it only takes one or two really good sources to reveal all the paths you need to stitch together a fantastic article, but if the right people aren't forthcoming then you hit a wall. I may start writing abbreviated profiles to cover whatever I can dig up, without going into my usual level of detail and scope. OddBike Shorts if you will.

Thus I think it's time to pursue some new ideas to expand the OddBike concept.

In particular I want to pursue OddBike Stories, offering a place for otherwise unsung characters to share their stories on camera. I see this as the next evolution of OddBike. Development of the concept has been slow as I'm limited in my equipment and my ability to travel but I'm hoping to rectify both those issues soon. Off the top of my head there are a dozen people I desperately want to get in front of a camera with no rules to slow them down. I want Stories to be akin to sitting across from someone in a quiet bar, letting the viewer hear them rattle off their fascinating experiences and share their knowledge in an informal manner. Too many formalities tend to get in the way of spontaneous storytelling. A dry Q&A it won't be. Think of how a history documentary frames a subject and allows them to speak freely. I'm there to steer the conversation, but I don't really know the questions I'll be asking until we start talking and I see where the various tangents will take us.


Along similar lines I'd like to start a podcast. Make it a forum for the discussion of design, ideas, engineering, and what's going on in the industry. I think Matt Farah's The Smoking Tire Podcast is a wonderful model for what can be done. It could be a much-needed space for the sharing of alternative thinking in an industry dominated by conservative ideas.

It is with all these unfulfilled concepts bouncing around in my head that I made my way down to Alabama for this year's 14th Barber Vintage Festival. If nothing else it would give me a chance to escape my mundane daily life for a week and get some fresh inspiration at the mecca of motorcycling that is Barber.

I got in touch with JT Nesbitt a few months prior to heading down. It's been far too long since I have hung out with JT and gotten blasted drunk while discussing motorcycles. I arranged to meet him at Barber before heading down to New Orleans to spend a few days at Bienville Studios to check out his latest projects. He cryptically promised to bring a few bikes along with him so that I'd have something to ride over the weekend.

My girlfriend, Trina, was keen to go and give me an opportunity to refresh myself in the one place in the world where I'm in my element. She had been a follower of my writing long before we began dating and she has been a strong supporter of my work. Having her voice her love of my writing brings home the fact that a lot of people out there appreciate what I'm trying to do. Which makes me feel terrible that I have so much trouble keeping things rolling while juggling my day job and personal life. In my personal fantasy I'd be able to devote myself full time to OddBike, or at the very least keep the usual soul-crushing job of necessity as a part time affair.

Trina very graciously arranged to cover our airfare to Alabama and split the costs of the trip with me to make it financially doable, even when I've been in debt control mode for six months while I attempt to get a handle on my finances. Years of credit card debt and high interest loans are catching up with me and living paycheque to paycheque with zero financial stability is a terrifying reality to deal with.

Without her help I wouldn't have been able to take a vacation, let alone go to the Vintage Festival. I looked forward to introducing her to the world that I love and the people I've spent so many years writing about. I knew she would appreciate the opportunity to put names to faces and see the passion that inspires me firsthand.

We left Calgary on a cold October morning, an early snowstorm having left a foot of "you are not riding your bike this week" on the ground as a not-so-subtle reminder that we were escaping to warmer, better things south of the border.

After a few days of meandering around Birmingham and seeking out good barbecue (Saw's Kitchen is still my favourite hole in the wall in Bham and I'll recommend it to anyone who will listen) we met up with JT and Michael Walshaw (formerly Kriega's US distributor, and the kind soul who sent me a free R30 several years ago that remains my favourite backpack) on Friday to start the festivities in earnest.


I walked out in front of the motel to find three machines from JT's collection in the parking lot. The centrepiece was a 1995 G1 Confederate Hellcat, serial number 3, which makes it the oldest Confederate in existence. On the trailer were a couple of JT's vintage machines, a 1953 Moto-Guzzi Falcone and a 1949 Vincent Series C Comet.


Thus begins the process of learning how to start and ride two distinctive old machines, both operating in their own idiosyncratic ways which are far enough away from a modern machine that you need a lesson or two to get the procedure down. You generally won't need a lesson to ride anything made after 1970 or so, but prior to that every bike has its own little quirks and differences in controls that you'll need to get used to.


I chose the Guzzi for my ride, given it's Italian and it's the easier of the two to live with. That leaves the Vincent for Michael to ride, and the Confederate for JT.

With the Falcone being a dry sump machine with the risk of wet sumping the crankcase, JT installed a shut off valve in the oil feed line. Rule number one, two and three: did you turn the oil on, are you sure the oil is on, did you check the oil is on? A hand painted "Olio" on the rear view mirror is there to remind you, as is a red electrical wire wrapped around the right handlebar. Failure to follow rules one through three will result in a blowed-up-good Guzzi that is mighty difficult to find parts for.

Starting is easy. Turn on the oil. Turn on the fuel. Roll the low compression 500cc single up to TDC then squeeze the decompressor on the left bar to ease it slightly past TDC, set the choke open, and give it a swift kick. The engine fires readily and settles into a steady lope, needing only a small amount of throttle to keep it going for a few moments until it begins to warm and you can turn off the choke. Then it idles nicely on its own and you are ready to ride.


More weirdness: like many pre-Japanese machines, the shifter is on the right and the rear brake on the left. Shifting is strictly heel toe: rear down for first and downshifting, front down for upshifts. The front brake is in the usual spot but is so wimpy you are better off using the rear and planning accordingly. The clutch is light and has good feel but the gearbox needs coaxing into gear, gently keeping the shifter depressed into first while you feed it throttle and ease the clutch out. Failure to do so will have it pop out into neutral, too much pressure or ham fisting the controls and it will grind the gearbox dogs and make JT cringe visibly.

Once you are underway the Faclone will quickly put you at ease, the stress of startup and the first gear takeoff melting away as the machine happily thumps away beneath you. Shifting after first is easy and smooth, the suspension is quite compliant and the power is lazy. It's a momentum machine, one that doesn't like sudden inputs or any attempts to accelerate or stop briskly - it wants to lope along as a steady pace. Once you figure that out it's quite relaxing to ride and it feels like it can run all day. It's smooth, relatively quiet, and comfortable. It doesn't have the frenetic vibration, noise and the persistent feeling of mechanical delicacy that some vintage machines exhibit. It would be a perfect mount for a traffic-free country road with medium speed sweepers where you could set it into 3rd or 4th and let it glide along at a set speed.

"Where's Trina's helmet? You need to take her along with you."

Oooh. I stupidly hadn't anticipated that. I brought my own gear but figured I wouldn't be bringing Trina along as a passenger so I didn't bother providing any gear for her. Some boyfriend I am.

JT pushed us to visit the swap meet at Barber and find her a helmet. I'll admit I had some trepidation. I usually don't ride with passengers and doing so on an unfamiliar, borrowed vintage machine I was slightly terrified of breaking wasn't in my planning. But he had a point. I didn't want her to feel left out, and coming along for the (literal) ride would enhance her experience of the event.


I rode the Guzzi solo to Barber and Trina caught up by shuttle. We headed into the swap meet and trawled the aisles of junk in search of a decent lid that would fit her properly. Even if we were just pootling around the Festival grounds I wanted her to have something that would actually protect her.

We managed to find a decent Chinese full face with a proper DOT rating for the princely sum of 20$. Then there was the issue of the Guzzi's lack of a pillion seat - there were pegs, but the seat was swapped out for a tiny luggage rack on the rear fender. A Vincent T-shirt from one of the vendors solved that problem and added another moto shirt to my collection.


We took a quick tour of the Barber Museum, taking in the new wing that was built to expand the floor space and put more machines on display. I hadn't seen the new section, having last been here in 2015 for the Britten reunion. If you thought the museum was incredible and overwhelming before, rest assured it's even more amazing with the floor space nearly doubled. It still doesn't have room for the entire collection but many machines that were previously hiding in the storage wing or stacked along the walls have been put on display alongside the old favourites. I've been to Barber so many times that I'm becoming quite familiar with the displays and individual machines that get rotated through the main hall; the expansion gives me a new sense of wonder and fascination that I was losing from this familiarity, presenting me with a new series of exhibits and weird machines I've never seen before. They've done the impossible - made the most amazing motorcycle museum in the world markedly better. The only way you could enjoy it any more is if you could ride the damn things.


The sun was setting and I didn't dare test the Guzzi's dynamo-powered headlight after dark, so we headed back to the motel.

Trina had never been on a motorcycle before. I didn't keep the GSXR long enough to take her for a ride, and my Ducati is strictly monoposto, alloy subframe and all. Her first experience was surely a memorable one. Not many people can claim to have been aboard a 1953 Falcone, let alone as a passenger. We got many curious looks as we puttered along.


We spent the evening drinking beers in the motel parking lot, sharing stories with the riders who were staying next door. JT's trio of bikes garnered plenty of attention. Both the Vincent and the Guzzi are in fine shape, the Guzzi a well-maintained survivor and the Vincent an impeccably restored rider. And of course the brutal presence of the Hellcat which commanded attention despite few people knowing what it was.


Saturday Trina and I headed into the Festival once again, spending some more time perusing the swap meet and touring the Festival. I'll admit I didn't do as much as I would have liked to. The heat and humidity was stifling and by noon everyone was baked, sweaty, and half past sun stroked. We made a quick tour of the race paddocks to say hello to Bob Robbins and see what was going on, stumbling upon a few cool machines along the way.


There was not one but two Suter MMX 500s sitting all by their lonesome under a pit tent, with zero fanfare or crowds to announce the presence of the ultimate modern two stroke on site. The lack of attention (the owners/riders were absent) gave me a chance to quietly examine the machine up close without distraction. It's almost boring in its surgical perfection - the bodywork is flawless carbon weave and fitted tightly around the mechanical bits. You don't see much of what is going on under the skin. It certainly looks superbly crafted, as you'd hope it is given its near as dammit 200,000$ price tag.


Generally I don't give a shit about race-only machines as they are wholly inaccessible to me and my taste, but the Suter captures my imagination in a way that other rich guy track day specials haven't.


We met up with JT in the swap meet, tipping him off to a Parilla 250 I had spotted earlier. I also told him about a very tidy looking 1997 Ducati Monster 750 that had a 1900$ price tag on it.

Usually JT wouldn't be much interested in a dime-a-dozen 1990s Ducati but he perked up when I mentioned it. "Let's go have a look. We need to get you something to ride back to New Orleans."

Huh? I was taken aback at the suggestion. Was he thinking of buying a bike just for me and Trina?


Turns out there was a greater purpose to his madness. The previous week he had met a charming young motorcycle mechanic by the name of Monique who runs a collective shop in New Orleans called Moto Maidens. She had showed up at Bienville Studios aboard her Triumph Thunderbird triple, curious as to what was happening in the shop apparently filled with cool bikes and cars. She and JT got to talking and he soon realized she was a legitimate motorcyclist, a full time student who spent her free time working on bikes and teaching local riders how to fix their rides.


JT has a peculiar way of testing people to see what makes them tick. One such test in his arsenal is the question "if you could own any single bike in the world, what would it be?". He hope you won't just say "I want a BrandX ModelY".

Monique's answer was "I want T.E. Lawrence's Brough Superior".

DAMN. I was jealous I hadn't thought of that first. I didn't have an answer anywhere near as good.

But more generally she apparently wanted a Monster, hence why JT was suddenly interested in a swap-meet Ducati.

We checked the bike over and haggled with the hard-nosed owner before finally settling at 1800$. It had some cosmetic flaws but appeared mechanically sound, with a mere 12,000 miles on the odometer. It ran well and sounded good. The only mods were a set of no-name slip ons and a K&N air filter; otherwise it was bone stock and it included the original solo tail cover and unmolested beer tray rear fender. The worst elements were a repainted fuel tank and some battery acid damage on the left side, common to these older air cooled Ducs that house a wet cell battery under the fuel tank. For under 2 grand it was a really good score and I became more and more confident that we had found a diamond in the rough. Hell, most stuff in the swap meet in that price range was mighty crusty or butchered beyond recognition.


The plan was now for Trina and I to ride the Monster back to New Orleans. This was a welcome adventure for me. This summer I'd been so broke and so busy with work that I hadn't gone for any extended rides. Delivering an old Duc 400 miles across three states would go a long way towards making up for my lackluster riding season. It would also allow me to introduce Trina to my peculiar style of seat-of-the-pants touring aboard ill-advised Italian machinery with the omnipresent spectre of mechanical failure to keep things interesting. I was excited. I hoped she would be too, and that the Monster's mediocre passenger seat wouldn't make her hate me after the first hundred miles.

We spent another evening drinking beers in the motel parking lot, hanging out with whoever cared to stop by. Brian Case paid a visit, still shaken by the collapse of Motus the previous month. Brian has devoted the last 10 years to Motus and has seen the project through from napkin sketches to production machines and a dealer network. To have the finances sink the endeavour just when success seemed to be at hand is devastating. He told us of the proud Motus owners who stopped him at the event and gave him a hug, congratulating him on producing an exceptional machine.

I did the same. I rode the MST several years ago with Brian and Lee Conn and I was blown away by how much fun they'd packed into a practical sport tourer. It was fast, agile and well put together, a highly polished machine for what was a first effort from a boutique manufacturer. It's a damned shame that more people didn't experience how great Motus was. I heard and still hear plenty of complaints about the price tag from people who never rode one, preferring to do spec-sheet comparisons to Japanese machines produced in the hundreds of thousands. The fact that you got a top shelf machine with exceptional performance that was built from the ground up in America was lost on those who couldn't see past their sticker shock - or worse, whine about pedantic crap like the lack of electronic nannies. By the way, ABS was due next year and was in the last phases of testing when things got shut down.

YOU try building and certifying such a machine in a country with high skilled labour costs and sell it for less than 30 grand from the best components around a bespoke engine, without a multi-billion dollar manufacturer behind it. Why these naysayers never noticed that Harley baggers and option-heavy BMW K1600s were in the same price range always puzzled me.

If nothing else Brian and company proved it could be done, and saw the project through to fruition. And it was good, setting records on the salt flats as well as proving to be a capable and reliable product. They accomplished a hell of a lot in ten years. Brian was smart enough to buy his MST outright so the bank can't take it away from him should things get liquidated. His personal bike is the one he used to set the production pushrod record at Bonneville.

Eventually I intend to interview Brian in detail about Motus and get him on camera to tell his amazing story. But now is not the time.


I borrowed some tools from JT's van and spent an hour going over the Monster to ensure it was somewhere near ready to ride 400 miles to New Orleans. The belts were suspicious, probably ten years old, but in fine shape and without any sticky idlers to shred them anytime soon. The front tire was toast but wasn't showing cords so I could live with it. The battery was good and the charging system functional. It ran fine with no evidence of gummy carburettors despite having been off the road for a while. The main ground wire was hanging loose, which a swiped 8mm nut took care of. 

The only thing I couldn't sort out was an inop front brake switch. Otherwise it was fit to fly and wasn't in urgent need of anything. Not bad at all. Further investigation was showing we had done pretty well nabbing this one. Nothing bodged or fucked with under the skin aside from the typical chopped airbox lid mod.

Normally I'm not very fond of 750cc Ducatis but these early Monsters benefited from having a lively Pantah engine. They are easy to spot with their flattened clutch covers; underneath the skin you'll find square-toothed belts and a five speed. It has more in common with the 750 F1 than it does with the M900, which used the newer 2-valve architecture based on the Paso 906 engine. The later 750s were dogs in comparison, being the same weight as the 900 and gifted with undersized heads and valves to choke them enough to keep you from being satisfied with the "little" Monster.

These "old" 750s are flexible, happy little engines that are eager to rev and produce more than adequate power. They don't give up much to the M900, maybe 5-10 hp at the wheel. Riding them back to back you'd be hard pressed to justify the premium of a 900.

Keith Turk made an appearance later in the evening to say hello and check out the Hellcat. I'd met Keith years ago when he was still running the East Coast Timing Association; nowadays he is doing other things, including running Hot Rod Magazine's Drag Week and working behind the scenes on projects including David Freiburger's land-speed Camaro.


I'm certain I'm forgetting half of what he told me; distilling his work down to his involvement with HRM and a YouTube celebrity is certainly not doing him any justice. He has more speed records under his belt than just about anyone. He is probably the fastest guy I've ever had the good fortune to meet, in absolute terms. He's also crazy in the best way, full of great stories and politically incorrect anecdotes in addition to being a bottomless well of go-fast knowledge. He has a hand in a lot more events and goings-on behind the scenes in the speed world than most people, including myself, might realize.

Another evening descended into a blur of beers and socializing. We made plans to leave the next morning for New Orleans. Trina and I would depart early and take the back routes. JT and Michael would leave a little later, giving us the possibility of a backup ride should we suffer a breakdown.

Or get stopped by the cops for not having registration or insurance.


JT's idea of making our adventure aboard a swap-meet Ducati more exciting was to not bother sourcing a temporary license plate for the ride to NOLA. In fact we'd ride the whole way with a bare fender. My only bargaining chip was the title paperwork under the seat and Alabama's lax registration rules, which ostensibly give you 30 days to register your vehicle. That is presuming you: A. are intending to register it in Alabama, B. are not a foreigner with no local address, C. have valid insurance, and D. are not riding hundreds of miles through neighbouring states.

Sunday morning journalist Alan Cathcart dropped in to meet with JT and take delivery of the Hellcat for a test ride.


The Hellcat is one of JT's personal projects, a rough example that had suffered flood damage up to the middle of the crankcases. It changed hands several times before he bought it and undertook an intensive restoration, rebuilding the entire machine from stem to stern. As he is intimately familiar with the G1 from his years at Confederate, this Baton Rouge-built example benefitted from several improvements to correct the flaws of the original design. Many unobtanium parts had to be made from scratch by JT, including the entire exhaust system. The 93 cubic inch S&S engine, the first assembled as a complete crate engine by S&S, provides impressive motivation even 23 years on. He was understandably proud of the result.

Cathcart was here to ride the bike around some of Birmingham's lovely twisty backroads to evaluate it and write an in-depth review to be published in Classic Bike magazine sometime this winter.

One thing you cannot accuse Cathcart of is laid back riding when he is testing something - he rides the absolute piss out of anything you hand him. The Hellcat would be no exception. JT didn't seem to mind. He has known Alan for many years and has trusted him with every machine he has designed. In fact Alan rode one of the Bienville Legacy machines at the Goodwood Festival of Speed, a great honour for JT as very few two-wheeled machines get selected to hit the track.

JT lamented that he has been in the industry long enough to see features on his work migrate from Cycle World to Classic Bike. A little sting from the reminder that he is growing older, even though he is only 47.


Trina and I hit the road aboard the Ducati and settled into a steady pace. The bike didn't miss a beat, happily coping with two up riding down the Interstate towards the coast, where we took a detour along the water. It was as much to avoid potential State Trooper questioning as it was to take the scenic route.

The Ducati exhibited the classic Monster quirks of being not quite as comfortable or as nimble as you'd think it should be, but otherwise performed admirably. The engine never felt like it was lacking power and the midrange torque was quite impressive for a 750.


It's neither a touring bike nor a sport bike, just a "bike" in the classic sense. You could consider it an exotic, high maintenance alternative to the UJM - it does everything well enough but nothing exceptionally well. My only real complaints would be the lack of sixth gear which made it buzzy above 70 mph, and a too-high shifter position that I couldn't lower due to interference with the kickstand spring. Pretty minor stuff.

We arrived in New Orleans that evening an hour behind JT, who still managed to beat us home even after Cathcart's test ride. We suffered no issues, no breakdowns, no encounters with the law for our lack of registration. It was almost disappointing that it was so easy to buy a cheap Ducati of unknown quality from a swap meet then ride it a whole day without drama.


 
The fact that the whole shebang cost considerably less than a modest suburban home in the Calgary area made Trina and I mighty jealous. Damned oil money has made property values obscene in Alberta.


The point was driven home even further when we went down the block and had a superb meal at the St Roch Market before heading out for drinks at Bud Rips. It's hard to find bad food or drink in New Orleans, especially in trendy areas outside of the tourist trap zones.


Speaking of superb taste, JT had a very cool stable of vehicles lined up in the Studio. A pristine 1996 Mercedes-Benz W140 S600, in black on black Dictator spec, made me mighty jealous - the W140 and C140 are my all time favourite Benzes, the last MB to be (over)built like a brick shit house before the late 1990s cost cutting and proliferation of electronic gadgetry ruined the old-world quality of the brand. It shared space with a manual-transmission Aston Martin DB9. Across the garage sat a 1963 Buick Riviera in the process of being rebuilt into a big-block powered restomod with modern suspension and brakes beneath the iconic Bill Mitchell design.


Bike-wise there was a lovely NSU Max, an over-the-top Suzuki-powered Harris Magnum 4 (with optional Harris-built single-sided swingarm), and a partly-disassembled Norton Classic rotary he was sorting out for his friend and local collector JB.


We had met JB briefly at the Barber swap meet and he turned out to be a kind and enthusiastic motorcycle lover. JT promised we would visit him and check out his collection, which he hinted contained some very cool machines. Apparently JB had just taken delivery of a Hesketh V1000, one of only three or four in the USA, which makes him my kind of collector.


Aside from his stable of vehicles JT's latest project has been of an entirely different sort. He hasn't left motorcycle design: he intends to build a four cylinder hybrid powertrain machine as a high-tech successor to the Bienville Legacy, but until someone hires him to do so and fund the endeavour that project remains in the concept stage.

What he has been working on is a gun. A modern reworking of the iconic LeMat revolver in typical JT style, with every possible element done as differently as possible from the accepted "norms".

"You know they had this revolver system down in the late 1800s. And it's hard to improve on it."

But he's trying, as he always does. I handled a very early prototype which is a long way from completion, but basic specs are a .410 shotshell firing through the centre of a cylinder of .38 Special. It's true to the LeMat concept (a single-shot shotgun housed within a revolver) but entirely new and modern beyond that basic idea. I don't want to give away too much of what he is doing, but the trigger and hammer mechanism is unique and fully adjustable without changing springs or parts that aren't already in the gun. And he intends to build each gun to order, fitted precisely to the owner's hand and style.

Some might be put off by the idea of building a gun, particularly in the current political climate, but one cannot deny the artistry and engineering that can go into a firearm. They can be works of art, beautiful while remaining functional. I'm an avid shooter myself and have a great deal of respect for firearms design and history. I've been honing my skills on the range for the past two years, training for shooting sports and improving my marksmanship.

If you want to see what OddBike would be like if I covered firearms, you must check out Ian McCollum at Forgotten Weapons. His friendly, apolitical style and immense appreciation for history and design is charming. I promise he is not your typical NRA blowhard gun blogger/vlogger and he is worth following to learn more about the weird and wonderful world of firearms design, even if you aren't into shooting.

Along similar lines are the crew at C&Rsenal, who craft in-depth historical treatises on the design, operation and use of firearms during the First World War. They also sponsor the repair and conservation of these rare weapons and share the process of their gunsmith Mark Novak on a sub channel called Anvil. It's fascinating stuff, and they are compiling an immensely valuable historical record on their YouTube channel.

It's almost natural for JT to choose firearms design as his next endeavour. The history of firearms is littered with alternative ideas and attempts to build a better mousetrap. You can always buy a Glock if you want something that functions flawlessly. But there is room for weird ideas and innovative designs - there have been a shocking number of solutions to the problem of making something go bang over the years, and people are willing to pay for something different and unusual (provided it actually works).

There is also a thriving niche for a hand-crafted boutique gun like JT is building. He's told me many times how he has received exactly zero inquiries about the Magnolia Special or the Bienville Legacy, but he gets at least one email a week regarding the rough LeMat concept he has posted on his website.

Sad to say the gun industry seems to be more appreciative of innovation and craftsmanship than the motorcycle industry is.

The next day we made a trip out to visit JB and see his collection of machines. He had just returned from Barber and asked us to help him unload his latest acquisition from the weekend's Bonhams auction.

He noted that only two lots received ovations from the crowd - the over hyped Husqvarna graced by Steve McQueen's ass, and the bike he bought.

Inside was a SOHC Honda CB750 with a flat tire.


We were kind of puzzled. Then he pointed out that it was a 100-point restoration of an early sandcast CB by World Motorcycles. It showed zero miles on the (replacement) clocks and was as close to flawless as you'd expect a CB750 to be, busted rear tube excepted.

The reason for the ovation was he had paid $36,000 USD for the thing.


JT and I didn't get it. It's a CB750. They made damn near half a million of them (445,900 SOHCs between 1969-1978 to be exact). It's not even one of the mega rare unobtanium pre-production bikes that are fetching huge money. But I could see it being a bargain for a fully restored example - getting one rebuilt to that standard would cost a lot more than 30 grand.


That being said, there are a lot of other bikes I'd want to spend that kind of money on before a CB. And JB has spent that kind of money on a lot of other bikes - the CB is a crowning addition to his collection of Hondas, the one model he was lacking to complete the lineage.

His collection was as eclectic as it was cool. A well worn RG500 sat close to the Hesketh he had recently purchased. A row of rare Harris-framed machines from the golden era of the company lined the back wall. A cobbled-together homebrew four cylinder 2 stroke Yamaha sat adjacent to a series of early Japanese racing hardware.

That turned out to be just the first half of the collection. Another half sat in a warehouse across town. JB promised he had something very special in the other building.

That something turned out to one of two Hondas that Hideo "Pops" Yoshimura built and ran in the inaugural Suzuka endurance race in 1964. Which JB nabbed off eBay for 8800 bucks.


This is the 250cc entry, a 1962 Honda CB72 that was heavily massaged by Pops. This bike ran second until it was retired with a broken valve spring. Pops' other entry, a 305cc Honda, was the race winner after an 18 hour stint.


The fact that JB secured a priceless piece of Japanese racing history for used sportbike money is unbelievable. Surely some museum would nab it. You'd think Yoshimura themselves would be jumping at the chance to preserve part of their heritage. But no, he bid on it and got it for a laughably low price.

This is no flawlessly restored museum piece. It's been preserved in as-raced condition. It retains the battle scars and remnants of Pops' handiwork. For example, look at the sectioned headers crudely welded back together, evidence of his experimentation with tuning exhaust length.


JB allows me the privilege of sitting on the bike. It's narrow and low, physically tiny beneath you like many racing machines of the era. Unlike many of those contemporaries it is roomy, with sensibly placed controls. It's laid out very sensibly. You have enough space to move around, no dog-humping-football position necessary. The clip ons are wide for the period, better for leverage and comfort when most racers were trying to bring the grips into impossibly narrow configurations to better cheat the wind.


Back to New Orleans and I attempted to get JT on camera for a full length interview. This ended up being a bust, as the audio didn't turn out - later investigation uncovered my microphone was faulty and all my film was useless. JT proposed some ideas for how to proceed once I have my equipment sorted out, including a new concept for OddBike videos that would take advantage of the passion of guys like JB. I'm keeping this one under wraps until I've shot some pilots - suffice to say it's a damn fine idea that follows OddBike principles, and it's an idea that hasn't been well served in the motorcycle video niche to date.


While this time might have been a bust, it does afford me more time to organize and purchase better equipment so I can take my video work to the next level. JT is one of my most anticipated subjects and someone I'm dying to get in front of the camera to tell his story, so I think it will be worth the wait and the extra effort.

Plus it gives me a damned fine excuse to visit New Orleans again.


The next day JT gives me a last minute opportunity to finally try out the Vincent before we head home. I'm excited, even if I can only putter around the neighbourhood. It's better than nothing, and any opportunity to ride a well-sorted Vincent should be taken advantage of.

JT spares me the delicate starting procedure and fires up the Comet before wheeling it out into the street. It's not idling very well and requires throttle to keep it running, adding to the challenge of riding an unfamiliar vintage machine.


I hop aboard and set out with trepidation. Like the Falcone the gearbox requires steady but delicate pressure on the lever to engage first gear. Fortunately the notoriously finicky Vincent clutch is properly adjusted and engages flawlessly.


Off I go. Unlike most big British singles the Comet is remarkably smooth, with none of the vision-blurring vibration I was expecting. My immediate impression is how taut it is in comparison to the Guzzi. It feels solid and the suspension is well damped across the rough pavement. The chassis feels tight and well controlled without being too firm. It's a lovely balance of comfort and control. I didn't push it very hard but JT tells me you can cane it on a tight road and it won't scare the shit out of you. He notes that the twins have enough power to start overwhelming the chassis, but the Comet lets you approach its limits quite easily.

Power isn't considerable but it feels like the torque curve is completely flat - acceleration seems steady no matter what RPM it's turning. It seems to get stronger going into second and third, the tractable engine pulling you along without strain. It's an honest and very usable 30ish horsepower.


Then there are the brakes. They are good. Not just good, they are excellent. It's shocking that a near-as-dammit 60 year old motorcycle can stop this well, and with an easy-to-modulate, progressive feel from the mechanically-operated quartet of drums. This bike has no right to stop this well, but it does.

You could ride this Comet in modern traffic. You SHOULD ride this Comet in modern traffic. It's a revelation how undramatic and "normal" it all feels. Aside from the finicky cold starts and right hand shift you could toss any modern rider onto this thing and he or she would be perfectly at ease aboard it within the first mile.

Despite coming from the same era as the Falcone, the Comet feels like it is from a different planet. I'd venture to say it could outhandle and outbrake most stuff built into the 1970s. It's that good. There is a reason these fine old machines have earned a reputation for excellence and a dedicated following. Not only are they rare, beautiful, and well engineered, they are absolutely lovely to ride.


What a wonderful way to round out my visit to Bienville Studios. I didn't get the chance to ride the brutish Hellcat, but I'll definitely take it out the next time I'm down. I will return to get some filming done with JT and JB and whoever else we can convince to sit down in front of the camera.

Don't fret over my lack of updates over the past several months, loyal readers: the future of OddBike is in the works.

Contribute to OddBike on Patreon

This week on the OddBike YouTube Channel I'm presenting the first installment of a new series called OddBike Tech.
Speedzilla Forum thread on tuning Ducati ECUs
Innovate MTX-L wideband AFR gauge
Brad Black Ducati Tuning Reports, a wealth of information for anyone tuning Ducatis 

Contribute to OddBike on Patreon

Thanks to Abhi over at Bike-urious.com for sponsoring this post! Be sure to follow his site for daily doses of weird and wonderful motorcycles.

There are two factors in the motorcycle industry that can and usually will doom any bike from the beginning:

1. An extremely high price tag.
2. Styling courtesy of an automotive design house.

The subject of today's profile applied both of these deadly sins to their full effect. It was certified by Guinness as the most expensive motorcycle of all time. And it was declared the ugliest motorcycle of all time by anyone who had the misfortune to gaze upon the bodywork penned by Pininfarina.

This is the Morbidelli 850 V8. Technologically fascinating and produced by a company that should have had no right to build an eight-cylinder grand touring machine, it was an ambitious attempt to break into what has traditionally been the black hole of motorcycle genres: the boutique luxury motorcycle.



Interesting Links:
Morbidelli Museum Website
Ultimate Motorcycling on the only privately-owned Morbidelli V8
Giancarlo Morbidelli and his museum
Morbidelli - A Story of Men and Fast Motorcycles 2014 documentary
Morbidelli V12 Project
Morbidelli V12 on the Kneeslider
Press on financial trouble at the Morbidelli Museum
OddBike Morbidelli Gallery

Contribute to OddBike on Patreon

Like old biplanes? Who doesn’t! They were once state of the art – those are what airplanes were supposed to look like - almost a century ago. Now imagine how progress in aviation would seem like if the only advances made since then were only with materials and electronics – would a carbon fiber covered titanium framed biplane with digital fuel injection sound like the peak of aviation development to you?


Would PlaneExif feature old aircraft with the latest developments in ironically inappropriate undercarriage tires, patina by numbers, and smug purveyors of artistically diminished airworthiness for the edgy iPilot? Well, that’s not too far off from what’s happened to the motorcycle world. For the high performance end of the market, how many years in a row of bold new graphics, .01mm smaller valve stems with 1.2 degrees less included angle for 2.4 more horsepower, and 17% more bodywork tortuosity does everyone have to get from press release regurgitators before everyone tunes out?


Are motorcyclists that braindead? I’m not innovation intolerant - if the OEMs won’t offer real innovation, fine, I’ll take that as an opportunity to do it myself. I don’t have any qualifications, credentials, or connections to do what I’m doing, but if the results from the qualified, credentialed, and connected are anything to go by, I’m better off for that.


I see the vast majority of the motorcycle industry as horrifyingly uninspired, unenthusiastic, and antipathetic. Look at any of the “Motorcycle Art” sites and bore yourself to death with endless images of Battle Tarts™ on dystopian café racers. How do you get that screwed up to think that’s exciting, attractive, or even remotely interesting? Am I the only one that doesn’t “Get it”? Maybe I need to look pretty far back to see why I’m headed the other way.


As a product of 1962, my early childhood was heavily influenced by that era’s boundless optimism and progress in aerospace, and having older brothers that enjoyed explaining it to me made it stick for life. The constant stream of new and exciting advances in aerospace meant there was always something interesting to learn. I couldn't wait to see what would come next: the future was going to be awesome! Then came the end of the Apollo program, the end of SST, XB-70, B-1A, etc. Well, one of my older brothers was also into homebuilt aircraft - the EAA’s Sport Aviation magazine introduced me to the excitement brought to that world at first by Jim Bede, then later by Burt Rutan. No need to wait for some factory or government program: the portal to the future is your own workshop, order that set of plans today!


Well, airplanes are really cool, fast, and all that, but they are still expensive to build, operate, and store. I soon concluded that motorbikes have the best !/$ ratio of any vehicle. Then while talking about motorcycle design, my older brother explained that if modern engineers were to start designing bikes for the first time, they would look very different, with vastly better aerodynamics, comfort, and chassis dynamics than bikes based on 19th century configurations. The only hints of such possibilities were the Mead & Tomkinson Nessie and Newell’s Quasar; to the teenage me, they seemed horrifically ugly, heavy, and misguided.


Then came motorcycling’s own era of boundless optimism and progress. The chopper fad imploded and the sportbike market exploded! The de Cortanze ELF racers hit both the tracks and the magazines. A GP class for the rest of us called “Battle of The Twins” started running at the national level. James Parker showed us what was possible with his RADD creations - his MC2 in Motorcyclist showed us that the future was going to be awesome! Tony Foale’s chassis book boosted my confidence on the subject of chassis dynamics and design. And if all those aircraft homebuilders could produce stunning aircraft, then how much easier should it be to produce a stunning motorcycle?



While all of the other Funny Front Ends had logical explanations, I didn’t like any of them. Too many would illustrate their structural superiority with a side view of the load path, but none of them would illustrate that same path when seen from above – they’re worse than any fork from that direction. Wouldn’t it be really cool just to have 2 straight links in pure compression/tension? No way will that work, and I wanted to see for myself what would go wrong – except that it did work – on paper, anyway. Around the same time, Gene Church was dominating Pro-Twins BOTT racing on a Harley, while nobody seemed to be sure if Ducatis were still imported to the USA or even still in business In Italy. Is anyone going to take that company with an elephant logo seriously?


Harley was known to make engines without making any changes for decades (Unlike the 2 year engine design lifespan from the Big 4 at the time), and the new Evo engines had far greater performance potential than the previous generation. So I went with the Harley engine. Since so much of my new design was unproven, racing seemed like a bad idea for initial concept testing. Lovely yet hardly used roads were nearby (Sunspot, New Mexico), so the first bike project would be vaguely street legal. A new 1988 Sportster 883 was bought, torn down in the living room while my wife was away with relatives, and construction started in an unused 2nd bedroom.


I’d never built a motorcycle before, but books like the Aircraft Spruce & Specialty catalog, Carroll Smith’s excellent books, and the usual workshop books from Finch and Fournier got me started. The frame was made of 1” and 2” .065” wall mild steel cold drawn seamless tubing. The welding supply catalogs said that nickel silver brazed joints should be even stronger than welding, so that’s what I did. All of the tube fitting was done with a few hand files and a hacksaw – slow, but cheap. The engine was squared up to the table and stuck in position with bondo (AKA “Jig in a can”). Careful placement of tubing, with the assistance of my neighbor Ed Harthan’s fire resistant hands, made a frame jig unnecessary.


The only bent tube on the entire bike was the upper brace tube on the swingarm – packing the tube with sand, capping it, heating the bend area up with a rosebud torch, and hand bending it around a sheetmetal faced radius block got it done. The bodywork was carved then sanded from chunks of Styrofoam from Aircraft Spruce, fiberglassed with “Saf-T-Poxy” (...later banned because it apparently wasn’t safe enough), then smoothed out with Feather Fill and lots of wet sanding – just like building a composite homebuilt airplane! Afterwards, all of the foam was chipped out and/or dissolved out.


Some of the BOTT Harley roadracers used low oil sump placements, so that’s where mine ended up and I never had any oil feed issues. The board-track style exhaust pipes were the result of laziness, it was supposed to get a 2-1 exhaust system (and 1200cc big bore kit, etc.) but I just wanted to find out if the bike worked or not. And losing a few percent of horsepower on an engine that already made very little power made it hard to notice the difference. Both wheels were 18” Akront Nervi rims, just like the state of the art GSX-Rs at the time; I was never a fan of the 16” wheels that were popular elsewhere. The big “inside out” brake rotor was used to provide clearance for the virtual pivot arms; braking was a lot better than expected. The only problem was rapid pad wear, until race compound pads were installed.


The seat was shaped by assuming the position and hand forming a piece of perforated sheet metal to fit the interface area, then sandwiching it with fiberglass. Even with a quarter inch of foam rubber, it was an all-day comfortable seat, or at least it was for 135-pound twenty-something me. The only handling issues were an occasional vague weave, which would go away as soon as the steering system rod ends were oiled. That’s why I didn’t use Teflon lined rod ends, as stiction in the pivots will make an otherwise good steering system unrideable. By keeping the virtual pivot arm forward rod ends as close together as possible, 3 inches apart, the usual steering weirdness associated with the OEC Duplex was completely avoided.


Much about that project was printed in an article featured in the October 1991 issue of Motorcyclist magazine. I thought media exposure would change everything; all I had to do next was brace myself for the inevitable onslaught from rabid enthusiasts heaving large sacks of cash at me to build them exotic HD powered sportbikes!


Yeah, no, that didn’t happen. Maybe it’s because it was based on a Sportster and not a Big Twin – everyone knows which one gets the Big Money! But as well as the first one worked, it wasn’t race proven. So clearly another secret to success is racing! Sell that first project at a huge loss and build that Big Twin racer now!


The engine/primary/transmission assembly was lifted out of my 1988 FXRS-SP and mounted inside a new frame and suspension system. Then, no matter how I approached it, it was impossible to escape the fact that the primary case was going to hit the ground long before it cornered at serious lean angles, even with a custom offset chain drive sprocket. After facing all of that and a lot of other design details that weren’t thoroughly thought through, the engine was sold, the leftovers were thrown out, and interest in designing and building what I thought were going to be seen as two-wheeled Cobras came to an end.



By this time Ducati was back in the game and winning races with the 851/888 series. Harley became a peddler of lifestyle accessories with no apparent interest in roadracing competitively (competently?) anymore.

A few years earlier Kevin Cameron published an article in the January 1987 issue of Cycle magazine explained why Funny Front Ends weren’t really going to do much and that two-wheel steering could change everything - in theory. I thought that was nonsense; FFEs make everything better at braking and turn-in! I delighted in late braking with my first project far later than I’d have ever dared with other bikes and their icky telescopic forks, and then flicking it in for a late apex and hammering the throttle out of the corner. Well, that sure is the most exciting way to make riding at 7/10ths feel fast on the street, but it isn’t really fast. And while the front end always remained totally composed with tons of feel, it was the back end that started to alarm me by feeling like it was going to come up and hit me in the back of the head under hard braking braking.


No amount of component rearrangement would change the fact that motorcycles dynamically become virtual unicycles at the extreme ends of performance. Kevin was right - the only way to significantly increase performance is use both tires all of the time by increasing the wheelbase and steering both wheels. How do you do that? Well, if national security depended on it (Peace Through Superior Lap Times), it wouldn’t be a problem, but my last name isn’t DARPA and I don’t have Skunk Works budgets or facilities. None of the chassis theoreticians had any relevant experience or even helpful opinions on the subject; there’s no prior art available. But I really want to know what it feels like to go a lot faster - a challenge that ought to be a lot of fun.


By this time, the BOTT class was eliminated and national club racing had gone entirely to factory production based formulas. Silly peasant, motorcycle racing isn’t about racing: it’s about OEMs and organizers! Those icky bike builders in shabby vans with no advertising budgets shall not sully the gleaming row of race transporters and mobile hospitality suites in the pits any longer! Well who needs the AMA anyway when the local racing clubs are alive and well with accommodating rules? But which engine? Which class? What’s the Next Big Thing?


Bob Brant’s excellent 1993 EV book, Alan Cocconi’s electric Honda CRX conversion, the GM EV1, the threat of an EV mandate in California, and later, the AC Propulsion T-Zero made the challenge of designing and building a high performance electric motorcycle racer seem like a very exciting opportunity. Having enough kilowatt hours to get a few laps worth of screams and giggles meant that the bike would probably have about a quarter ton of lead-acid batteries – the far superior lithium battery pack would have cost well into 6 digits and was a nightmare to manage. Performing two-wheel steering system stability and control experiments with a fast heavy motorcycle sounded like a really bad idea.


A rear steering mixer was designed that would infinitely vary both the front to rear steering ratio and the relative direction, but having a two axis steering control with just a handlebar wasn’t feasible. And the anticipated stretched out kneeling position was a source of weight distribution, structural, and ergonomic nightmares, even if it looked totally radical.

A visit to a bicycle shop presented an unexpected solution.
 
I’d previously regarded recumbent bikes as contrarian contraptions, generally ridden by old guys with degenerative personality disorders. But here in front of me at that bicycle shop was an old Ryan recumbent with a long wheelbase and an aerodynamic yet comfortable rider position which eliminated all of the kneeler design issues – the perfect configuration. I sit corrected! And for that two axis control, well, just replace the remote handlebar pivot with an aircraft-style control stick! So I built a lightweight test version of that electric racer that was in my head out of fillet brazed 7/8” and 1-1/8” (which fits nicely in cheap conduit benders) mild steel tubing. This time, a full frame fixture was built out of straight lengths of wood lath – good for one time use only, but cheap, easy, and effective. I then discovered that tubes could be held in place with a small blob of Bondo – by the time they were tacked together, the heat would pop off that blob cleanly and the brazed joint could be finished.


An order was placed for two high-speed Heinzmann electric hubs from a shop in England, before such hubs became illegal in Europe and unobtainable elsewhere. All of the other hard-to-find electrical bits and pieces came out of the KTA Services catalog, a pre-internet gold mine for EV builders. The bike minus the batteries weighed about 70 pounds, and the 3 lead-acid “U1” batteries also weighed about 70 pounds. The bike handled somewhat like an airplane – tilting the stick to the left made the front wheel turn to the right, which made the bike roll to the left. That’s just basic counter steering in action, but it still took a lot of unlearning/relearning before I could relax while riding.

The stick was in two wheel steering/same direction mode almost all of the time – the only time it went into opposite mode was in very low speed sharp corner/U-turn situations. And the biggest surprise came from just going around in a fixed circle with different rear steering ratios – the more both ends steered in the same direction, the smaller the lean angle – none of the steering theoreticians predicted that. While the two-axis control stick was invaluable for testing, it was not a viable racer control system. Since then, the bike has served as a lovely suspended decoration in my living room.

 
The budget still wasn’t there to build a full sized electric racer, but by then the Go-Ped craze was peaking – all sorts of cheap little bits and pieces were available for their 23cc engines. And there was even a local racing series held in large hotel parking lots around Denver and elsewhere. A 2WS Go-Ped powered ultra-low recumbent racer was built and tested. The 2WS system’s 2:1 F/R steering ratio reduced lean angles a lot, making it easy to ride hard and slide around; front end slides didn’t result in an instant lowside. I figured that I could make and sell frame kits with little trouble; a humble start in motorsports, but a great way to introduce the 2WS concept to the world and an opportunity to grow towards far greater things!



Cycle World expressed interest in both the 2WS Go-Ped racer and the 2WS/2WD electric test bike. Supposedly, articles were written, including one by Kevin Cameron, only to get canned. I don’t know why and never got to read them, but I still have the pictures that were taken for the article.


Unfortunately, the Go-Ped craze soon imploded, taking the racing series and aftermarket with it. My machine spent the next few years hanging over my desk – my favorite kind of art. Then it became a depressing reminder of what didn’t happen – nothing new was discovered with it anyway - the engine was sold, and the leftovers were thrown out.

 
By now, there was enough information to proceed with confidence on a real 2WS motorcycle. There were also a new set of unknowns, but there’s only one way to find out. All of the known methods and techniques used to make virtual unicycles work would probably have detrimental effects on a bike that actually uses both tires for traction all of the time.


Is a 50/50 weight distribution going to make the back end step out since it doesn’t transfer enough weight to the rear end under acceleration, or would a rear end weight bias work better, especially since the rear tire is wider than the front? Are long swingarms dynamically beneficial or just stress multipliers for a long wheelbase bike? Since total weight transfer isn’t happening anymore, is a half foot of suspension travel even necessary? Is a regressive spring rate a good idea with a lot less travel? Is anti-squat on the throttle/chatter off the throttle rear end geometry still a good idea? Would some front end brake dive help stabilize the chassis during the transition between braking and cornering? Will linked brakes be effective? What’s wrong with having steering geometry that works well all of the time?


The more you study about what others know about motorcycle dynamics, the more you find out that they really don’t know anything at all other than: “This is how we’ve always done it - it’s the proper way”.
 

The budget was nil, again, but low-interest credit cards were easily obtained at the time – why, it would be foolish not to proceed, jump through that wide-open window of opportunity now! So the racer was designed to be dirt cheap and easy to build using an EX500 donor bike. It wouldn’t be competitive, but at least it would tell me if I was going in the right direction. The 16” wheels hurt it a lot since no race tires fit them, but the shape of the wheel hubs made the machine work a lot easier, especially for the split hub center steering on the rear hub.


Ideally, this sort of work would be done under contract from a large company and tested in top secret on proving grounds that don’t show up on maps, with only the fully developed production model revealed to the public many years later. But that’s not how the Backyard Industrial Complex works. It was built in my garden shed with square and rectangular steel tubing - no fancy frame jig required – 3D geometric precision through C-clamps and angle iron. All of the welds were done with a nice little Lincoln MIG unit and cost nothing in labor. All of the machining was done in my kitchen with a small cheap lathe/mill combination machine – very slow, but it made a lot of perfectly good parts when it was too cold/dark/wet to work in the shed.


The bodywork was also kept as simple as possible, while still trying to keep it from being as ugly as possible. Parts which could have been lightened considerably weren’t; as good as lighter parts are in a racer, additional hours of work delay the answer to the most important question: Will it even work?
 

Image courtesy Tracy Helmhold

It did work! The local club (MRA) and local track (High Plains Raceway) were really cool about letting me race with them - I can’t say enough good things about them. And even though it wasn’t competitive, operating it in a competitive environment generated far more valuable experience than just renting the track and droning around with the intent to make haste on the next lap, not to mention socially engaging, and even a lot cheaper. Real racing at a real race track stimulates a mindset that can’t be simulated.

Image courtesy Michael Moore

After the last race, it was going to become another living room fixture. But then I had an opportunity to show it off at the 2019 Quail event, which sounded like a good excuse to take it out one last time. The Quail event was a lot of fun – I got positive coverage from some enthusiastic writers and met a lot of interesting people. I'm glad we went.
 

Image courtesy Michael Moore

After a quarter century of electric racer dreaming, the time to wake up and actually make one is at hand - or so I’m told. While I would dearly love to build and race the electric racer that’s in my head (I’m very jealous of my mental test rider – he’s entered countless races, smashed lap records, and loves it…), my next racer will have an internal combustion engine for 2 reasons: weight and cost.  Until you see a successful season of high performance air racing with electric airplanes, you won’t see a successful season of high performance roadracing with electric motorcycles for identical reasons. As long as I’m using my available credit rather than someone else’s large sack of cash to finance the next racer, leaded racing gas mixed 20:1 with castor oil is still the key to optimizing that !/$ ratio and making the future awesome.

Check out Robert's photo gallery for more cool pictures of his work.

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Image courtesy Alan Lapp

The photos that followed in Julian's email made me lean back in my chair and giggle with glee. You are goddamned right this is "OF INTEREST". You should know my taste by now Julian, because every time you send me something you nail it.

Image courtesy Alan Lapp

If you've followed OddBike for any period of time you should be familiar with Julian Farnam and his designs. He has become a staple subject of the site for years, and for damned good reason: there are few backyard tinkerers as talented or as innovative as Julian is, and every time he puts Tig to metal he concocts something inspiring that speaks to the very heart of OddBike. Or at least something so thoroughly weird and wonderful that it will cleanse your palette of the dull Hondas and derivative Triumphs that populate your feeds for the remainder of the week.

Image courtesy Alan Lapp

Image courtesy Alan Lapp

Julian's work has run the gamut from OEM quality engineering to Frankenstein-ian monsters, with many permutations in between. This bike, which he has dubbed Dirty Rat, was Julian's entry into the Dirtbag Challenge for 2019.

Image courtesy Alan Lapp

The Dirtbag has been a favourite topic of mine and I've previously featured one of Julian's previous builds, as well as one built by his friend, photographer, and co-conspirator Alan Lapp. Traditionally the Dirtbag Challenge had three basic rules: you couldn't spend more than 1000 bucks (including the cost of the "donor" machine), you had 30 days to build it (with the start date kept a secret until the "go" announcement), and you had to complete a 150 mile journey without it blowing up and/or killing you.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

Starting in 2016, Dirtbag rules have been altered slightly. Well, a lot. They doubled down on everything. Now the budget is 2000$ and the build time is 60 days. Damned slacking for veteran builders like Julian, but a way to make things a little more appealing (and little less aneurysm-inducing) to newbies. The caveat is that the shakedown ride is also doubled: now you need to survive more than 300 miles aboard your machination, over the course of three days and two nights, to successfully complete the Challenge.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

Of course that didn't mean Julian had an easy time building the Rat. He managed to make things difficult for himself by breaking a few of his personal build rules.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

Let's get the basics out of the way, so you can begin to understand the majesty of this monstrosity you currently behold: the engine is a Yamaha Banshee 350 two-stroke ATV engine, mounted in a RZ 350 frame, sprinkled with some Suzuki and Yamaha bits, a few snowmobile parts, finished off with a glorious girder front end and rear swingarm - both built from scratch by Julian.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

The project began, conceptually, as the desire to build a new chassis for a Yamaha RZ; if you are at all familiar with Julian's history, you'll know he has quite a bit of experience with Yamaha two-stroke platforms, both RZ and RD. Nevermind the half-dozen projects he has on the backburner that most of us have not seen. This concept developed as a response to a series of inquiries Julian has received to develop a modern chassis for the RZ, as well as his own desire to bring the Yamaha two-stroke twin into the 21st century. He has the experience and the know-how to execute the idea; his first big venture in motorcycling was AND, which specialized in building a top-quality chassis for Kawasaki EX500s before that platform got muscled out of middleweight club racing by the advent of the SV650.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

What ended up on Julian's sketchpad was a steel trellis frame linked to flat swingarm/suspension mounting plates, with a twin-shock girder fork at the front and a TZR-geometry steel-tube swingarm at the back.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

With the Dirtbag build looming and a desire to prototype some of his ideas, the RZ re-frame project became the basis for the Rat. Unfortunately time constraints would preclude the construction of the one-off frame. Instead an ex-race, de-tabbed RZ frame of dubious collector value that had been gifted to Julian would serve as the basis of the build. It would prove to be the only conservative component of the build.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

To power the machine a Banshee 350 ATV engine of unknown quality was bought off Craigslist for 500$, breaking Julian's golden rule of starting the DBC with a running donor. To those not familiar with the infamous Banshee, Yamaha's batshit loony entry into the sport quad scene, the YFZ350 was more or less a re-tuned RZ350 engine dropped into a 400 pound, 80 mph, six-speed, two-wheel-drive ATV that was sold to unsuspecting victims from 1987-2006 (2008 here in Canada). Anyone who had an adventure with a Banshee had a near-death experience to share, whether they owned one or borrowed one. The most common injuries I was familiar with were the result of burnouts and donuts gone wrong, when the 'Shee caught showboating riders off guard by hooking up violently and tossing them over the highside. Usually while a camera was rolling and the maximum number of witnesses were present.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

While the YFZ packed a mere 30 horsepower on paper, no one left them stock for long and their long production run means there are plenty of go-fast parts at your disposal. To make things more interesting, the Banshee lacks any sort of power valve system; the RZ featured YPVS to make things a bit more tractable, but the YFZ keeps things simple and violent with an unmitigated two-stroke torque spike when it comes on the pipe.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

Julian's engine wouldn't benefit from too much nuttery given the limited budget and looming deadline, which caught most builders off guard by being announced earlier than expected. The go date was announced in June with the Challenge to be completed on August 25th, rather than the typical Fall -ish dates of previous years. In fact Julian had booked a five day vacation to go adventure riding in Vermont, which ended up cutting into his build time.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

It soon became apparent to Julian that he would need to build the bike twice, cobbled together once with parts from the scrap heap to verify the function of the engine and get an inspection done for registration, and a second time to complete the proper Dirtbag build and its accouterments. Hence the importance of starting with a running donor (preferably one with a title).

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

Adapting the YFZ engine to the RZ frame proved to be relatively straightforward, with only a few minor hurdles. The YFZ lacks a thermostat and has different coolant line routing to the cylinder head, which necessitated some cleverness at the parts store to find a solution (Gates 19760 coolant hose for anyone who might be trying to shove a Banshee mill into an RZ frame). The YFZ cylinders also lack flanges for pipe mounting so adapters had to be fabricated to install the John Lassack chambers capped with Toomey stingers. The Craigslist engine also lacked carburettors so a used set off eBay got slapped on with just a cursory inspection to make sure jets were installed (don't laugh, it would not be the first time I've heard of a jet rattling around in the bottom of a float bowl).

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

Slapped together with enough parts to (theoretically) pass an inspection, Julian took the proto-Rat to the DMV... and was failed by an overzealous inspector for a spongy rear brake. An afternoon of scrounging better brake bits out of his spares pile fixed that issue and allowed him to proceed with registration, and starting the DBC build proper.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

Inspiration for the Rat's distinctive front suspension came from a concept rendering from Bulgarian shop Galaxy Custom of a FFE BMW R1200, executed in true Dirtbag fashion: with snowmobile parts, a liberal application of Chinese hardware, and lots of fabrication.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

In what is likely a first for a DBC build, Julian called upon some contacts he has made in Chinese manufacturing to CNC mill a box full of aluminum brackets and suspension components. Seven hundred dollars and a week and a half later he had one off front radial caliper brackets, chain adjuster eccentrics, suspension triples, and mounts for the gauge and handlebars.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

When you witness how cheaply and quickly the Chinese can produce appealing results, it is little wonder that some very expensive boutique motorcycle manufacturers secretly use Chinese manufacturing to achieve their goals with bespoke components, despite their claims to the contrary. That tidbit is strictly off the record, of course.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

The legs of the front girders are bent steel tubing with milled pivot bushings, reinforced with the laser cut gussets provided by Nevada shop SendCutSend. Suspension on both ends is via Yamaha snowmobile piggyback shocks: but why snowmobiles? Hot tip for budget builders: late 1990s and early 2000s Yamaha sleds are a cheap source of Ohlin's shocks, which were OEM fitment and are readily available on the used market for around 100 bucks a pop. Initial testing revealed the spring rates to be too stiff for the Rat's geometry and weight, so lighter Hyperco springs were installed on both ends.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

The subframe of the RZ frame was chopped and replaced with a cleaner unit that incorporates twin shock mounts for the new swingarm. This probably marks one of the few cases of someone ditching a rising-rate monoshock for a pair of straight-rate piggybacks, but I can forgive Julian given how utterly sexy his resulting swingarm design is for something he slapped together in his garage over a few days. Plus the old RZ suspension isn't exactly cutting edge, regardless of the number of shocks it employs.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

The more mundane bits came from a variety of sources befitting the junkyard dog modus operandi. Rear wheel is a Suzuki SV650 cast off, the front a cheap eBay score from some year of GSXR 750. Front brakes are Yamaha's corporate Aisin ADVICS radial calipers. The fuel tank is first generation Yamaha R6 item, while the electrical system and wiring is cobbled together from spare RZ parts Julian has accumulated over the years.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

The build was completed just under the wire with almost no time to perform a shakedown run before the Friday, August 23rd beginning of the three-day DBC run. Loaded with camping gear, the gang departed from San Francisco and headed towards Jenner along the Pacific Coast Highway (Highway 1) for an overnight stay at the Willow Creek Environmental Campground.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

Along the way Julian quickly realized that the Rat's eBay carburettors were set up extraordinarily rich and it was drinking fuel at 15 miles to the gallon, enough to exhaust his supply of two-stroke oil long before the end of the ride. This ain't 1975; you aren't going to find premix oil at every small town mom-and-pop gas station - especially in California.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

Once settled in at the campground Julian dropped the needles to their lowest position. The following day he averaged a far more reasonable 25 MPG, enough to stretch his oil supply to the finish. A small crisis averted, and one I note for one simple reason: this proved to be the only mechanical hiccup the Rat experienced all weekend. I've had more dramatic shakedowns after an oil change, let alone after cobbling an entire machine together from disparate parts under a strict deadline.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

The second day saw the group continuing along the PCH to Point Arena, with a stop at Zen House to check out their high-quality European restoration work; an intentional foil to the Dirtbag Challenge's quick and dirty values perhaps? The ride continued East to Eel River for the group's second night of camping.

Image courtesy Julian Farnam

Julian notes:

The final day, Sunday, saw the group turn south through Clear Lake, Napa Valley, and Vallejo en route to Oakland for the final celebration, where the gang would gather for the signature DBC debauchery of music, food, fun, and lots of noisy burnouts after completing their 370 mile journey. And that is where Julian would receive (another!) "Cleverest" award from his fellow builders.

Image courtesy Alan Lapp

I, like any other red-blooded motorcyclist, have cultivated a long-held fascination for the work of the late John Britten.

I don't recall the first time I heard about or saw a picture of a V1000. I do remember that I experienced the same reaction most people have when they first encounter a Britten: "what in the almighty hell is that?"

This amazement was followed by an intense curiosity spurred on by the extreme styling, the gaudy colours, the elemental design. After the shock of the whole subsides, the strange little details suddenly pop into your periphery. The machine becomes more and more fascinating the closer you look. Just what is this strange, organic machine painted in bright blue and pink livery?

Then, inevitably, you learn how the Britten came to be: the condensed and mythologized story of a man in a shed in New Zealand building a world-beating race bike, one that had the performance to dance with multi-million dollar factory efforts - and beat them fair and square on the track. You watch the documentaries; you read the articles detailing John's project and the astounding innovation on offer. You learn of his tragic death in 1995, and the myriad "what ifs" that followed his untimely passing. What if he had lived to continue building bikes? What would have been the next step? How could he have topped himself, after he had built one of the most astounding motorcycles of all time?

It's a powerful story, an engaging tale of the everyman beating the world and exposing the weaknesses of a large, lumbering industry mired in tradition in the process. A man with a vision and grim determination takes on the establishment with a home-built special, and does well enough to scare the shit out of the factory efforts - all the while inspiring the notoriously fickle motorcycle market to appreciate an alternative, first-principle design. It is the classic David versus Goliath story arc with a tragic end, one that fits into the Kiwi tradition of self-reliance and DIY ingenuity.

It's a good story, but it is one that is simplified to the point of fiction. The truth is that the story of John Britten and his machines is far more interesting and nuanced than the "man in a shed" myth would lead you to believe, and the motorcycles that Britten and his team produced from the late-1980s through to the mid-1990s are even more amazing than you thought they were.




I'm sitting on the plane, scribbling notes and thoughts into my scratchpad. I'm flying to Alabama for the 11th annual Barber Vintage Festival, the third year in a row that I've attended the event. The Barber museum and the associated track are the stuff of dreams for motorcycle enthusiasts, the best motorcycle museum in the world and one that absolutely needs to be on every rider's pilgrimage list. Visiting the site during the Vintage Festival is an even more intense experience, with AHRMA racing going on all weekend at the track, vendors, manufacturers, and custom shops setting up stands across the grounds of the state-of-the-art facility, and tens of thousands of like-minded folks showing up aboard their bikes to enjoy the spectacle. You'll see just as many cool machines parked around the museum as you will inside it, and meet a countless number of interesting people who have come from all corners of the world to participate.


This year, however, is different. I was tipped off several months prior that this year's BVF would see the largest reunion of Britten motorcycles in North America, an event that I would be incredibly stupid to pass up on.

And pass it up I almost did. I had been planning my second USA Tour for the past two years and had drained my meagre funds completing a 5000 mile ride along the West coast. The ultimate goal of visiting Bonneville ended up being a bust, with the Motorcycle Speed Week I was aiming to document being cancelled right before I departed. Meanwhile I was getting word that quite a few Brittens were going to be at Barber, with several of them being run on the track. I started panicking and kicking myself for not planning a visit, for not putting aside enough money to make the journey to Birmingham to witness history and see the bikes that have become my icons.

The Britten has long been on my endless to-do list, one of the foremost examples of my obsession with strange motorcycles and alternative design. I've been quietly gathering material and contacts to write an in-depth profile of John's work, a task that became more and more daunting as each level of research revealed more and more detail to the story. It rapidly became clear that writing about the Britten could be my magnum opus article, a piece that would blow away any previous profiles I had done. It would also be a delicate subject, one that required the utmost care and attention to get right - no one would be impressed with a derivative, abbreviated summary of such an important machine that has inspired so many people.

It was a project I had on the back burner for some time, but one that was renewed when I met Bob Robbins at the Barber Vintage Festival in 2014. I had actually met Bob in 2013 while scouring the paddocks for a replacement coolant temperature sensor for my 916 after it broke down rolling through the gates, after I had ridden all the way from Montreal. In my panic to find a new sensor I had asked countless Ducati riders in the paddocks for help, including Bob. When I spied his Moto Guzzi MGS-01 in his tent during my 2014 visit, I had to stop to say hello and get some photos. I was surprised to learn that Bob had remembered me from my misadventure in 2013; I was embarrassed to admit I hadn't remembered him.

During the course of conversation, Bob let slip that he was in the process of rebuilding a Britten.

I was dumbstruck. It turned out that Bob had purchased Britten P001, the first "production" V1000 that was originally sold to Roberto Crepaldi of Café Racers & Superbikes, along with Jon White's "White Lightning" V1000-powered streamliner. The bike had not been run in 16 years and Bob had enlisted the help of factory-trained mechanic Dave Koban to return the machine to rideable condition.

I stayed in touch with Bob over the course of the year, selling him some parts for his MGS and keeping abreast of his work on P001. He turns out to be a kind, passionate enthusiast who has a deep respect for the importance of the bike. He was rebuilding it to run it, to make sure that as many people as possible could see and hear it running. Soon he had it finished and promptly shipped it off to New Zealand in February 2015 for a tribute to John's memory at Ruapuna Park raceway, which proved to be the largest reunion of Britten motorcycles up to that point. Following that he enlisted Stephen Briggs as a rider for the machine; Briggs had taken second place in the 1995 BEARS World Championship aboard this very bike, second only to Andrew Stroud aboard the factory-run F002. Briggs rode P001 for some parade laps at New Jersey Motorsports Park during an AHRMA event in July, and would ride the machine at Barber as well.

I mentioned to Bob that I was trying to work out a way to get to Alabama on a tight budget, and he kindly offered me a place to stay in one of his trailers. If it hadn't been for the opportunity he had offered me, and the free accommodations for the weekend, I wouldn't be sitting here on this plane, scribbling my convoluted thoughts onto paper.

It would turn out that Bob's offer was worth far, far more than just a bed to crash on, and would make this weekend one of the highlights of my career as a quasi-journalist.


I arrive in Birmingham on Wednesday afternoon and, because I'm lacking the requisite AHRMA certification to enter the site before the weekend, Bob finds a way to sneak me into the paddocks.  I arrive to find he is trying to keep a considerable operation under control. A massive tent is being erected by a crew of hired labourers, trailers are being unloaded of equipment and bikes, and friends and guests are milling around trying to make themselves useful. It's a scene of controlled chaos, with Bob at the centre calmly orchestrating the madness. It turns out that he has been instrumental in organizing the reunion of V1000s here this weekend, coordinating with the owners, the Britten family, the riders, and the team members who will be visiting.


Word slips that nine of the ten V1000s built will be here this weekend.

I'm stunned. I expected five or six machines, and there was virtually no fanfare about the reunion ahead of time aside from the Vintage Festival poster illustrating a pair of V1000s and the promise of a gala fundraiser evening with the Britten family. My contact in the Barber museum had kept mum when I prodded him about what was going. As far as I knew there might be a couple of bikes present, with maybe two or three running parade laps, and I would have been more than happy to witness that. I didn't think I would see almost every V1000 built in a single place, at one time, particularly on North American soil.


P001, commonly referred to as Black Beauty, is present and taking centre stage among Bob's race lineup, which includes his freshly-rebuilt MGS-01, a heavily reworked Ducati SS he has had for decades, and two race-prepped Ducati SportClassics he is loaning to Briggs and Stroud to use in the AHRMA races this weekend.


His Britten is one of the most raced machines produced by the company, the first "production" bike sold to Roberto Crepaldi of Café Racers & Superbikes and campaigned extensively in Europe. P001 is also infamous as being the bike that Mark Farmer was killed aboard during a practice session at the 1994 Isle of Man TT, an incident that thrust John Britten into the spotlight for all the wrong reasons when allegations of a mechanical failure surfaced - rumours circulated that either the engine had seized or the girder front suspension had failed, and there were no eyewitnesses to confirm the circumstances of the crash.

The myth of the home-built race bike became a liability following Farmer's death, when John was singled out by at least one journalist for putting a rider into the TT aboard something people thought he had slapped together in his wood shed.


The truth is that Brittens are not crude machines, in spite of what the images of John quenching crankcases in a bucket of water would suggest.

Seeing one in person is all you need to confirm how beautifully constructed a Britten really is. While they have a few rough edges and some minor inconsistencies, you'll be surprised by how advanced and well-put together they really are, particularly when you recall you are looking at a bike that was designed in the early 1990s. Examining a Britten in detail will inspire even more respect for what was accomplished by John and his small team, because they are even more amazing than you imagined they were. The more you dig into them and the more you learn, the more you'll be impressed. It is one of the few cases where meeting on of your heroes will exceed your expectations.


The entourage begins to trickle in. Aside from Bob's friends there are several people who were involved in the Britten project who will be visiting. I meet Craig Gee, who aided in the construction of Jon White's streamliner. Stephen Briggs and Andrew Stroud will be arriving shortly, as will Roberto Crepaldi. Kirsteen Britten and her children, as well as two of John's grandchildren, will be here. So will Craig Roberts, who helped on the original build team and is one of the few technical experts on the V1000. Bob Brookland, who painted all the bikes, is visiting as well. That's not mentioning all the owners who are showing up with their bikes. Bob's tent is being setup as one of the main Britten displays, with a dining area and catering for the guests and a vendor area selling Britten merchandise. A few bikes will be displayed here, with the rest setup at the museum on the other side of the track.


It's utterly overwhelming. I expected to arrive and have the chance to talk to a few of the people involved, maybe get some testimonies on paper. Instead I'm thrown into the fray and I hardly know where to begin. I do my best to just introduce myself to everyone and not get in the way, but it quickly becomes apparent that the task before me is far more daunting than I imagined. This story is epic and documenting it over the course of one frantic weekend will be impossible. Nobody here knows who I am, and treat me with a degree of guarded reservation. No one knows what to make of my intentions. Presenting myself as a "journalist" doesn't help; thrusting a camera or a notepad into someone's face is a quick way to get them to clam up.


The following day P001 is being prepared for Stephen to ride on some parade laps during the lunch break. Bob removes the bodywork to pull the plugs out of the intakes, giving me my first glimpse under the skin of a Britten. It's a rare opportunity, and I have my camera ready. Bob shows me the ducting moulded into the bodywork to direct air into the intake and the underseat radiator, presenting the parts with a smile as I stare, mesmerized. The carbon fibre is roughly hewn, all laid by hand. Each bike's bodywork is unique and is not interchangeable without some fiddling.


I snap endless photos of the details and the layout of the front suspension while the bodywork is off, poring over each component and mapping the functions in my mind. Each pivot is adjustable with eccentric inserts and multiple mounting points. Even the axles and swingarm pivot have eccentric adjusters. Every element of the geometry can be tailored to suit the track and the preferences of the rider. Despite the apparent complexity, everything is remarkably clean and simple. Every element is distilled down to the essentials, with no extraneous wiring or components getting in the way. It's a form of purity you'll only find on the best-prepared race bikes.


But don't think for a moment that the Britten lacks sophistication. The fuel injection system was developed from Steward Electronics hardware, which was chosen as a cheaper, NZ-made alternative to the expensive EFI systems then available, but it proved unreliable on the precursor V1000s - so the hardware and software was reworked by team member Mark Franklin, to the point where Britten was manufacturing their modified systems under license from Steward. It is adjustable on the fly by the rider, via a trim knob on the left switchgear. Turning the knob will add or subtract 5% mixture across the map to fine tune the running during a race; while the technology isn't unique (Ducati has had a similar trimmer on their ECUs since the late 80s) the idea of making it adjustable on the fly by the rider is. A red button on the left switch allows the rider to set a mark point in the data, a way to trace running issues - if you have a problem, tap the button to set a point in the printout so that the mechanic can examine the parameters at that moment.


The Britten teams were famous in the paddocks of the 1990s for plugging a Cambridge Z88 laptop into their machines to check parameters and make adjustments, sometimes faxing their datalogs back to New Zealand for analysis and corrections. It was the sort of space-age technology that virtually no one had seen in motorcycle racing to that point.

Part of the evidence used to exonerate P001 following Mark Farmer's death was that datalogging system. A ten-minute log is recorded in the ECU that can be downloaded and analysed, and the data preceding the crash showed a sudden RPM spike - evidence of a probable highside at the Black Dub, a complex corner that has become infamous for catching seasoned riders off guard. Farmer's tire selection (a hard compound rear) increased the risk, and word was he had been riding hard chasing Steve Hislop's Honda RC45 (which was shod in softer tires) into the Black Dub.


The bike is reassembled and fuelled up, and Bob wheels it onto starter rollers. Everyone in the vicinity stops what they are doing. Phones are pulled out and cameras start rolling. The dry slipper clutch is locked with a spring-loaded pin on the pressure plate that engages with the rear of the basket to allow for bump starting. A few coughs and some some oil smoke billows out, a common issue due to the lack of valve guide seals on these engines.

Then it fires.



It's the first time I've heard a Britten running. P001 is currently fitted with a 999cc engine; F001 is an 1100, others are 985cc. The exhaust note is distinctive from the 60 degree twin, a raspy, staccato noise with the dry clutch rattling away in the background. The boombox exhaust fitted to the production bikes is relatively quiet, approximately the volume of a street bike with an unbaffled slip on. Bob notes that the boombox, which doubles as a chain guard and a mounting bracket for the footpegs, weighs 14 pounds, which he suspects is for ballast more than anything given that everything else on the bike is built to be extremely light. F001, the Cardinal Britten that is now owned by the Britten family, was notoriously loud with its open megaphone - too loud to pass inspection at most tracks, which led to dodgy fixes like jamming steel wool scrub pads into the pipe to quiet it down enough to get through tech.


Stephen takes the bike out for a few laps during lunch on Thursday, doing a few gentle parade laps for the crowd. The Barber Vintage Festival doesn't start until Friday so most of the attention is coming from within the paddocks, with racers popping out from their tents and trailers to get a look at the machine as it circulates the track.


I try to make myself useful in the paddocks, just so I'm not a useless tit getting in the way. In the process I become a de facto part of the pit crew. It's mostly just Bob's friends along for the ride, so I'm in good company. It turns out that this is far more entertaining and engaging than most of the events happening on the weekend, and I enjoy being around the Britten entourage. I can tell my imaginary grandkids that my contribution to history was scrubbing bugs off Brittens.


Just seeing one running and circulating the track is miraculous. An engine overhaul is spec'd for every 10 hours, but the word is that 5 hours is a safer bet. Stephen has noted that performance degraded noticeably after 60-odd laps, which would be less than half that. Bob Brookland shares that he calculated an average cost of running a Britten in a race at around 5000$ an hour. These are not production based machines hopped up for racing, they are purpose built race machines built to exacting tolerances. Tolerances that go out of whack real quick, provided you manage to avoid cold seizing or hydro locking the valve tappets, recuring problems when they were run in anger.


With that in mind, you realize why it is incredibly important that Bob Robbins has dug up sources for a number of engine parts and started the process for getting new runs of spares made to keep Brittens running. The main hurdles are the crankcases, head castings, and crankshafts, of which only a few spares exist. Con rods remain unobtanium, being titanium items plucked from a late-80s Indy motor made by a long since defunct company. But given enough time and investment, even those unique items could be replicated if needed.

Most of the moulds, castings, pictures and documents were moved into storage at the Brittco office after the Britten factory was closed in 2006. This turned out to be an unfortunate move, as the building was severely damaged and flooded during the Christchurch earthquakes in 2011, leading to the loss of many of these invaluable original parts and documents.

The rest of the mechanical bits are surprisingly pedestrian. The five-speed gearbox is out of a Suzuki GS, which causes issues with gear ratios, as the first two gears of the street bike transmission are far too short for race duty. The water pump is a Suzuki item as well. The dry clutch is a mix of Kawasaki and Suzuki parts, and will accept Kawasaki ZX-RR plates with some fiddling. The finned rotor poking out of the left side of the engine will be familiar to anyone who has worked on an early-90s Ducati, the donor of the charging system. The oft-repeated story is that the team only failed to win at Daytona in 1992 because of a Ducati rectifier; the truth is that the wiring was messed up and the bike had been running as a total-loss system off the battery for the whole race. Word is that John himself may have crossed those wires in a late-night rush to reassemble the bike after brazing a cracked cylinder liner.  


Jim Hunter arrives Thursday evening and wheels his bike into the tent to display alongside P001. Jim's bike is P002, the second production machine which he bought from John, and was famous for winning the Sound of Thunder and Battle of the Twins races at Daytona in 1997. It was also the Britten showcased in the Guggenheim's Art of the Motorcycle exhibitions. Painted in traditional Britten blue and pink livery, it attracts a new crowd of curious onlookers.


I'm fortunate to meet Dave Koban, who served as Hunter's mechanic while he was campaigning P002 in the United States. A factory-trained Britten mechanic, Dave is a quiet fellow who proves to be a wealth of information. I'm able to quiz him on a few details and confirm/deny some of the "facts" I'd gathered, and he immediately provides concise and clear answers, correcting some misinformation in the process. I desperately wish I had a few hours to spend alongside him with a bike in front of us so we could go over the design, construction, and adjustment of the entire machine. In the meantime I content myself with shadowing him when he is making adjustments so I can get a small glimpse into the inner workings.


Friday morning Roberto Crepaldi arrives. Roberto was a key player in the Britten story and the first person to purchase a bike from John, the very bike that Bob now cares for. Chuck, one of Bob's friends, reveals that he and Bob had visited Daytona in the 1990s, and Bob had wandered off on his own into the paddocks. He came across Roberto and his team, and sheepishly asked if he could sit on the bike. Roberto kindly obliged and took a photo.

Bob still has the photograph. He likely never imagined that 20 years later he would have bought that bike, though he probably did dream about it.


At lunchtime on Friday, the first day of the Barber Vintage Festival proper, four Brittens are sent out for parade laps. Kirsteen Britten waves the green flag to send them off. Moto journalist Nick Ianetsch takes out P002, Stephen Briggs is on P001, Andrew Stroud on F002 (the second factory machine built, currently owned by Kevin Grant), and Chuck Huneycutt is on Barber's P004. Ianetsch proceeds to hoon it up around the track, pulling wheelies and showing off for the crowd - and making most of us nervous. He does have some history aboard a V1000 but not nearly as much as Stroud, who everyone normally forgives for his antics. The idea of some self-assured loon borrowing an irreplaceable, million-dollar piece of history and immediately goofing off like it is a GSXR doesn't sit well with me, even though I'm happy to see these bikes out on the track and being ridden in something resembling anger.


Thankfully the bikes return unscathed, and the collection in the paddock grows once again with F002 being placed on display alongside P001 and P002. Now the crowd is beginning to grow, with curious spectators coming out of the woodwork following the parade laps. I get asked a lot of questions and do my best to answer them without talking out of my ass, usually trying to deflect inquiries to the more knowledgeable people who are around. I know a bit about the bikes and the story behind them, but I'm by no means an expert. The desire for people to learn more about these machines is palpable, but I'm not yet prepared to be a curator of their history. I still have a lot of learning left to do.

There is an odd problem that exists, something I was warned about early on in my research, of people who were not directly involved in the Britten project to claim they were. They try to steal some of the glory by pretending to have been a part of the story.

With that in mind I am cautious not to overstep my position as an observer. I have zero tolerance for bullshitters and certainly don't want to be seen as one myself.


There is a surprising amount of ignorance too, far more than I would have expected. I take it for granted that everyone should know what a Britten is, but the constant stream of people reveals that they aren't familiar to the average visitor. That doesn't mean that the curiosity isn't there. These machines still stop people in their tracks more than 20 years after they were introduced, prompting furrowed brows and strained expressions as people try to deduce what they are looking at. It's just a shame more people aren't aware of what they are, or why they are significant.

Reading through many of the summaries of the Vintage Festival upon my return home, I note a distinct lack of coverage on the Britten reunion - it's just a footnote in a huge event, and the significance of this number of V1000s being in one place at one time is lost on a lot of observers. Sam Britten, John's son, recalled that before this weekend the most V1000s in one place was some point in the 1990s when there were 7 machines at the factory, some being assembled and some brought in for servicing.


Friday evening is the gala dinner, an annual part of the BVF that helps fundraise for the Barber museum while bringing together an interesting mix of industry personalities. Normally there is a guest of honour, who is interviewed after dinner in candid manner - last year Alan Cathcart interviewed Erik Buell, the year before he quizzed Miguel Galuzzi and Pierre Terblanche.


But not this year. The dinner is billed as an evening with the Brittens, but in reality it's more of a quiet tribute to John's memory. Kirsteen Britten takes the podium to make a short presentation in memory of John, making a point to thank the owners present who supported his dream. There are no interviews this year. When I ask about this, the consensus is that nobody wanted to put Kirsteen on the spot and risk upsetting her. Regardless, she and the children are here surrounded by the people involved and thousands of fans, and all weekend she is approached by people sharing stories and photographs of their encounters with Brittens over the years. She notes that her children didn't fully grasp the impact of John's work and the significance of these bikes until they saw the memories and tributes being shared here. There is a lot more to the story that needs to be revealed, and that people desire to learn, but a lot of people seem to be walking on eggshells around Kirsteen.  


It brings to light the central problem you'll encounter when trying to tell the Britten story: few dare to tread on John's legacy as a lone, quirky genius. The contributions of his team members and suppliers, and even a lot of the technical details of the bikes, are overshadowed by the hero worship that has arisen since his untimely death of melanoma in 1995. Any event involving Brittens is inevitably presented as a memorial or tribute to John's memory. As far as the average person knows, John built the bikes himself with the help of a few friends. The "official" biographies and documentaries downplay the roles of the team members who took John's ideas from conception to reality. Disputes that arose within the group over money and patents have been swept under the rug in favour of a simplified history that paints John as a brilliant innovator who conquered the world more or less alone. The details of how he achieved this and how he produced one of the greatest motorcycles of all time are glossed over in favour of worshipping the legend and maintaining a positive light on his achievements.


The truth is far more nuanced and far more interesting than the made-for-TV story that is usually promoted. John was indeed a brilliant designer and artist, and skilled at inspiring his associates and friends to help with his projects to a degree that would drive most people to insanity - John was notorious for working long nights and surviving on minimal sleep, and his teammates were along for the ride. He was stubborn and often unwilling to compromise on his ideas. One of his greatest skills (aside from his vision, creativity, determination, spatial awareness, and ability to learn) was his ability to hold a disparate group of people together and set them upon an impossible objective. He would seek out the best minds and talents he could secure, and keep everyone working insane hours on impossible deadlines - and somehow, with his direction, they'd make it, often by the skin of their teeth, and not without many failures along the way. He had the charisma and determination to inspire people to do the impossible, a self-effacing bravado that made him seem simultaneously timid and unstoppable.


John himself promoted a lot of the myths about the construction and performance of the V1000.People still believe that Brittens never had mechanical failures or handling problems. They were very good, but they weren't flawless.


It's not to say John was some aloof director, a manager who hired on a crew to do his dirty work while he spouted off unachievable goals and bullshit claims. He was there alongside his team, working harder than any of them and pushing them to try and keep up, all while maintaining his professional and family life. His hand was very much in the first factory machines. His ideas are the core of the whole project, for good or ill - many improvements were rejected by John in favour of doing things his way, which sometimes resulted in setbacks. His penchant for flying by the seat of his pants, for last-minute experiments and hacking up perfectly good parts to test harebrained ideas, was notorious. He was a curious tinkerer and his meddling sometimes sabotaged the race efforts - a venue where consistency and reliability, not experimentation, are paramount.  


John was a great motivator and visionary, but there was one secret ingredient that allowed him to succeed where most innovators would fail: wealth. He was the heir to a successful real estate development company (Brittco Management) who was able to fund his dream by spending tremendous amounts of his own money without any regard for profitability, while being in a position to secure further investments along the way through his business network. He was able to beat the factory efforts by disregarding the compromises of mass production; his machines were built to win races, pure and simple. The V1000 was a cost-no-object exercise driven by John's desire to win, and to seek alternative solutions to common problems.


Attempts to adapt Britten technology to production machines for third parties fell flat when the sheer cost and effort of making them suitable for reliable, road legal applications appeared insurmountable. His designs were simply not viable for the compromises of mass production. That is why his machines were so incredible and so advanced: there wasn't a bean counter or engineer in the way to tell John he couldn't do something, and he was free to start from a fresh slate to solve problems in his own way.


After his death, work stalled and profitability outside of T-shirt sales seemed impossible. John had been the driving force holding the team together and driving innovation, and without him his namesake company was without direction in terms of both design and business; shareholders didn't like the idea of haemorrhaging money to win races. The company withdrew from further development of the V1000 and quietly shelved John's next project, a single with a six-valve head that was dyno tested but never installed into the lightweight supermono chassis John had envisioned.


The result of John's complete disregard for profitability is a 320 pound, 160 horsepower icon of motorcycling, each one of which is worth something in the region of a million dollars. It's a figure that isn't questioned by anyone present; they are simply priceless icons, form, function, and artistry built free of compromises by passionate people.


The million-dollar figure was thrown around a lot throughout the weekend, and I myself have wondered if a Britten could be the world's most valuable motorcycle. None have been offered publicly, save for a listing in Robb Report Motorcycling about ten years ago - I recall the asking price at the time was 450,000$, but damned if I can find a scan to confirm and I can't recall exactly which machine was on offer (maybe P005?). Aside from that they've only ever changed hands privately, and a few of the machines are still in the custody of their original owners. If a V1000 were to hit the auction block there is a good chance it would shatter records, humiliating creaky old Broughs and Vincents and making the so-called Captain America chopper sale look like the fraud that it was.  

   
After meeting some of the owners, it becomes clear that a Britten will probably never will go to public auction. They are all passionate custodians of these artefacts, preferring to be referred to as "caretakers" rather than owners. I don't think a single one of them would dare sell their machine, let alone offer it on the open market where it could fall prey to a pragmatic speculator looking for a blue chip investment to mothball in a warehouse. And for that we should all be thankful.


Nine V1000s are on display here tonight, including F001, the prototype built by John and his team in 1991, which is now owned by the Britten family. Each bike is placed on a work stand in the restoration department in the basement of the museum, a pink rose laid on the tank in memoriam to John on the 20th anniversary of his death.

After the first course of dinner I excuse myself from the table and take the opportunity to photograph each bike in detail while everyone else is engrossed in their meals and the conversations around them. I zone out and snap an endless stream of pictures, noting the distinct details of each machine. It proves to be the only moment I have to appreciate each Britten free of distractions and throngs of people, a once-in-a-lifetime chance to be among my icons more or less alone. I don't regret my anti-social move for one second.


The six-valve single cylinder prototype engine is present, along with the White Lightning streamliner (sadly lacking an engine, as the powerplant was only rented to Jon by the factory for his record attempts). The only machine missing is F003, owned by the government of New Zealand and on display in the Te Papa Tongarewa Museum. It very nearly did make it, but the laundry list of strict conditions and insurance policies that needed to be met for its transport to the United States were impossible to meet in the timeframe of the event. It's hardly a disappointment considering the scope of the turnout, but it would have been nice to have the entire production run on hand.


After the dinner and auction, each owner is given a custom Vanson jacket bearing their bike's serial number, the bikes are lined up in a row, and everyone takes a moment to pose with their machine. It's a surreal moment, punctuated by an endless flurry of flashes. There is a certain amount of frustration that comes with photographing something being instantly shared across the internet in real time by dozens of people, but it doesn't lessen the impact of what is happening.


Some murmurs pass through the crowd. Everyone has the same thought, a base desire to round out the evening's events with a bang. A starting motor is produced from the workshop and the doors are opened. Stephen Briggs hops aboard P001. The basement is filled with the staccato rumble of a V1000 firing into life. Stephen takes his time, gently blipping the throttle and watching the temperature display, waiting for the cold warning light on the dash to extinguish. The revs build, higher and higher as the temperature climbs. The smiles grow as people jostle to film the proceedings. The murmurs of the crowd are drowned out by the sound of thunder reverberating through the building.

A quick series of runs to redline and the bike is shut down, the deafening silence immediately interrupted by a triumphant cheer.



Saturday is another whirlwind day of activity in the paddocks as AHRMA racing goes on and more people stream through the tent to gawk at the Brittens. Stephen and Andrew continue racing aboard Bob's machines. All is running quite smoothly. Bob's meticulous eye for detail appears to pay off in his racing machines, all of which are prepared and maintained perfectly and don't suffer a single major issue all weekend. It's an interesting contrast to the scruffy, battered vintage rides you'll encounter in the paddocks. That's not to say those bikes are any less impressive, given their battle scars and the mark of the people who built and rode them visible at a glance. They are just another side to the sport, the grassroots foil to Bob's perfection.


The lunchtime parade laps see five Brittens on the track, yet another amazing moment that seems impossible to trump.


Little do any of us know that Bob has had an idea, and he's convinced Stephen, Andrew and Jim Hunter to join in.

I spend some time wandering around the event and checking out the sights. When I return to camp the entourage is buzzing, wry smiles all around.

I had been tipped off to what might happen, but I didn't really believe it would come to pass.


Stephen and Andrew suit up and P001 and P002 are wheeled out and fired up. Once warmed up they are put onto stands and tire warmers are thrown on. Dave Koban gives the bikes a final once over, making last minute adjustments.

The combined Sound of Thunder and Sound of Singles race is coming up. There will be no more parade laps today.

On the other side of the fence, the racers line up on the grid. The tire warmers are pulled off, the Brittens are started, and Stephen and Andrew hop into their respective saddles. They roll out onto the track along pit row. The flag drops and they take off after the group from behind, picking their way through the ranks as the singles drop behind the twins into their respective battles.


Everyone is stunned. No one anticipated this. We are witnessing history. A pair of Brittens are being raced in anger for the first time in over 15 years. The significance of the moment might have been lost on a lot of people, but for those of us in the paddocks we could hardly contain our joy. It was euphoric, and nerve wracking, knowing that million-dollar machines were dicing through the ranks of battered vintage racers, none of whom were warned that they were going to be going toe-to-toe with a pair of V1000s. Every lap is tense as we wait for the two machines to cross the line intact. But lap after lap they do, picking their way further and further up in the standings, finishing mid-pack in the Sound of Thunder group.


The boys return to the paddocks, unscathed, and a crowd forms. Riders from the race start streaming in, their leathers still hanging around their waists. They babble about being passed by a Britten, their faces animated and lit up with childlike glee at having been beaten by one of their icons. If anyone is upset, it's only because they didn't know in advance and complained about not having their GoPros turned on to film the action as they got cut up by a pair of V1000s.


Over and over again over the course of the weekend I hear people express a desire to learn more about Britten and how these machines came to be; a desire to learn "the truth", an unabridged and honest account. People are aware that they only know a myth and they crave something better.


Tim Hanna wrote a biography of John Britten, but it has been labelled unauthorized by Kirsteen and circulation is limited. It's not perfect but it is a very thorough and interesting account of John's life, personality, and work, and a very good account of the contributions made by the team members who helped build the bikes. The only officially endorsed Britten biography is a coffee table book written by Kirsteen's cousin, Katie Price. There is, of course, a story behind that outcome, but it is not one that I feel needs to be revisited here.


Bob has a filmmaker working on an account that gives a voice to the people who worked with John. On Saturday evening, at the same time that One Man's Dream was being screened in downtown Birmingham by the Britten family, Eric, the filmmaker, holds a preview showing in the pit tent of some of his work. He had spent the previous two days locked in his trailer, headphones on, furiously editing together a coherent narrative. It reveals the beginning of a beautiful story, of heartfelt accounts from the people who were a part of the dream. It doesn't take anything away from John's legacy. If anything it will be a brilliant tribute to his work, an account of how he was able to drive a team to achieve the impossible.

I'm happy to learn that I'm not the only person who is on this path, who desires to tell the story with all its nuance and complexity. Bob and Eric are playing this one close to their chest, but I hope that I can offer my humble assistance in the future and glean some insight from their research.


The pieces begin to fall in place in my mind. I begin to see how I can tell the story. The task ahead of me is daunting and the deadline seems to be stretching farther and farther ahead of me, but the process is beginning to sort itself out.

The night goes on with drinks and food. Everyone is relaxed and the atmosphere is warm. It's a perfect contrast to the slight stuffiness of Friday's gala, which had a far more serious tone. Jokes and stories are shared, candid moments and memories coming to light as the coolers get emptied and the crowd gets comfortable.

I am still in shock that I am here. The weekend has been a blur of surreal, once in a lifetime moments blending together into a spectacular whole that is far more incredible than I even imagined it could have been.


The following morning I attend the Naked Britten seminar at the museum, where Kirsteen, Craig Roberts, and Bob Brookland make a tantalizingly brief presentation by stripping the bodywork off F001 and showing the hidden details to a small crowd in the museum auditorium. It's a rare opportunity to see the inner workings of the prototype. The roughness of the components shows the hands of those who built it, the quick solutions to last minute problems evident in the construction. All Brittens have a slightly rough-hewn quality to them, but none more so than F001.


This is probably the most famous Britten of all, the one built by John and his small team at his home in 1991 over the course of single year - starting after Daytona 1991, where they had campaigned the more conventional fully-faired "precursor" V1000, and finishing with the debut of F001 at Daytona in 1992. It is the bike showcased in One Man's Dream. It exhibits a number of distinct details in its construction compared to the later bikes, including an 1100cc engine, a single cam belt versus the twin belts of later bikes, and differences in the shape of bodywork that are immediately noticeable when compared to the other machines.


Bob Brookland gives an overview of his paintwork on the machine, confirming the story that John came to him with a blue glass starfish purchased while on vacation. Bob painted each Britten and spent a lot of time thinking about how to integrate the disparate pink and blue colours together in way that wouldn't look jarring. The bodywork is not a solid colour, instead having artificial shadow and overlays to accentuate the forms. The pink panels are sprayed with translucent violet to harmonize them with the vibrant blue of the main bodywork. The bikes that followed were painted a more subdued blue with white numberplates, giving F001 a distinctly dark, rich appearance.


Craig Roberts offers some insights into the design and build process that speaks volumes. Components were built, then pared down until they failed, then taken back a step to produce a reliable but light part. John was notorious for his experiments, like a failed attempt to build carbon-fibre con rods - not all innovation made it past the testing stage. Craig shares tidbits like how they tested the crankcase castings for porosity by connecting a garden hose to the cooling circuit. He also shares the time John snuck out for a ride at Daytona while wearing Andrew Stroud's leathers, a ruse that was almost forgotten until someone found a picture of two Andrews, one aboard the bike and the other standing in the paddocks.


John was a pioneer in the use of carbon-fibre wheels, but if you have the opportunity to handle one you'll realize they were overbuilt to the point of being as heavy, if not heavier, than a conventional light alloy wheel - but they were extremely strong. Dave Koban noted that he accidentally flung a Britten wheel off a bead breaker, six feet into the air, and watched it land on the rim. It didn't even mark it.


Back at the paddocks, racing continues. While the Vintage Festival is a world-class mecca of motorcycle delights, with fascinating things to discover at every venue, I'm having more fun hanging out with the crew and doing my little part to help run the fleet. The Britten entourage is a group of genuine, interesting and kind people. John Britten clearly had a knack for finding good people and inspiring them to do great things. There is a lot of sombre reflection going on, even two decades after John's passing - it's the result of a deep respect for his genius and his memory, which makes this event a bittersweet reunion for a lot of the people present.


Once again Jim Hunter agrees to have Andrew Stroud go out on his bike for this afternoon's races. Jim's Britten is running quite a bit stronger than Bob's, with more compression (which is quite noticeable on startup) and a higher rev limit set in the ECU. Bob had P001 rebuilt to slightly more conservative specs for longevity. It's not slow, but to legitimately contest a race against highly developed "vintage" racers with modern parts and tuning Andrew is going to need all the power he can get.


A fresh slick is installed on the rear (I wish I could have seen the look on the tire guy's face when they handed him a Britten wheel) and Dave Koban makes some last minute tweaks, renewing safety wire and checking the belts. The carbon-fibre bellypan built for P001 to serve as an oil catch, something that wasn't needed in the 1990s but is now required to pass tech inspection, is transferred over to P002 with some fiddling. No two bikes are the same, and swapping parts from one to another takes some finessing to make them fit. Aside from that and filling the tank with C12, not much else is needed. A few days ago this bike was a priceless artefact on display in Jim's office; with some fuel and tires it's now ready to go kick ass on the track.


Andrew makes a few requests for adjustment of the suspension and controls to suit him, and complains about sliding around on the vestigial seat. I wish I had a roll of hockey tape handy to add some grip strips to the edge of the bodywork. It may be the most stereotypically Canadian solution I could have come up with but I'm pretty sure it would have worked. Maybe Bob will have a roll in his spares bin next time we meet.
         
The bike passes tech inspection and is sent out in the Sound of Thunder race. Andrew is riding conservatively, taking it easy through the corners then slingshotting ahead on the straights. He places mid-pack after sniping his way up through the field, gradually picking up the pace as the race progressed.

The next race is New Age Superbike, and there are murmurs that Andrew could take this one. He will be running against period-correct competitors, early 1990s superbikes, including a few highly-tweaked Ducatis.

Once again Andrew is sent out. After a clean start the race settles into its usual rhythm, with small groups forming and spreading out across the track. Chris Boy, aboard a very quick 888 Corsa, is in the lead. Andrew works his way up behind Chris, and now the race is on. Conservatism has gone out the window. A V1000 and a 888 are having a legitimate battle for first on the track, swapping positions repeatedly through the turns. The rest of the field disappears behind them as they push each other harder and harder.

The atmosphere in the paddocks is electric, the tension and excitement building to a crescendo. We are watching a recreation of a classic rivalry, a Britten dicing with a factory-spec Ducati. Andrew might be racing for fun, and won't receive any points for his finish (as it turned out he wouldn't even be noted in the AHRMA results), but he isn't holding back much if anything.


The Britten crosses the line ahead of the Ducati, making this race the first victory for a V1000 in the United States since 1998. The crew is ecstatic as Andrew rolls back into the pits, sharing a moment of jubilation after a historic moment. A flurry of photos and videos are taken, and Chris Boy comes over to congratulate Andrew on his victory - Chris will be first on the result sheet, but everyone is more than happy to admit defeat to an icon, even if it isn't official.


What follows can only be a slow, painful return to reality. The equipment is packed, the bikes are strapped into their trailers, the guests disappear to their respective hotels and flights. I've been a part of something extraordinary this weekend, and I dread returning to the misery of my retail servitude where no one will really understand what I was a part of - nor will they really care.

I try to thank Bob for his generosity, but he has a disarming, soft-spoken personality that makes you feel silly for even saying so.

He is the reason I'm here this weekend, and his generosity is what allowed me to be a part of a once in a lifetime reunion that exceeded my expectations at every opportunity. This weekend reaffirmed my passion and reignited my desire to write, after suffering through a severe case of writer's block brought on by months of mindless bullshit at my day job that left my mind muddled and my spirit broken.


My perspective on the Britten endeavour and the people involved has been forever altered by this experience, and this weekend has strengthened my resolve to tell the Britten story in a fair and accurate way that gives a voice to those involved while showcasing the brilliance of John's work. I have an even greater respect for what was accomplished and for the people who were involved after witnessing these bikes being run in anger and meeting the folks who helped make John's dream a reality.

This is only the beginning. I have a huge task ahead of me as I sort out the details, the anecdotes, the myths and the legends. I have a lot to do to write a profile that is fair to John's legacy, to the team members, to the riders, to the owners, and to everyone else who was involved in creating what I believe is, without exaggeration, the greatest motorcycle of all time. My task is daunting and my deadline stretches out far beyond the horizon, but I relish the opportunity to tell this story. John Britten and his bikes deserve nothing less.

BFG 1300 Brochure

Long time followers of OddBike and Bike-urious will recall that one of my early subjects was the wonderfully horrid Brazilian Amazonas 1600. It’s become one of my fondest profiles, one that was an important part of the development of the OddBike concept celebrating (and poking fun at) the weirdest motorcycles I could dig up. For those unfamiliar with the Amazonas, the short version is it is a thoroughly terrible overweight pig of a machine powered by a Volkswagen Beetle engine that was borne of the necessity of subverting punitive Brazilian tariffs on imported vehicles, in a desperate attempt to build a Harley-esque machine that could serve the local police forces.

BFG 1300 Brochure

Today on Bike-urious I present the Amazonas’ sophisticated French cousin, who is probably even more obscure than her Latin-American counterpart: behold the BFG/MBK 1300, another ill-fated attempt at stuffing an automotive engine into a heavyweight motorcycle.

BFG 1300 Brochure

Interesting Links:
Moto Club BFG
BFG 1300 Photos
Amazonas 1600
Van Veen OCR
Moto Francaise MF 650
BFG 1300 in the Lane Motor Museum in Tennessee
BFG Wiki
Citroen GS Wiki
Citroen G-Series Boxer Wiki
Review of the pre-production BFG GTA and GTB
Citroenet information of the BFG and MF
BFG 1300 fan page with some handy parts cross references

BFG 1300 Brochure

Citroen G Series Boxer Engine

BFG 1300s escorting Pope John Paul II

Laverda 750 S Formula

The vaunted Laverda marque needs little introduction. But I suppose we need to address why a whole series of production Laverdas would warrant an OddBike profile here on Bike-urious. Laverda has long been a fond topic of mine (see my exclusive V6 history on Silodrome.com) and the company has a long and proud history of producing fine Italian sporting machines, Odd or not.

Laverda 650 Sport

There is, however, an entire generation of Laverdas that has been largely forgotten in recent decades: those produced at the Zanè factory through the 1990s. It is time to rectify that and introduce you to the last, and perhaps best, Laverdas that preceded the marque’s descent into irrelevance as a zombie brand punted into a dark corner of the Piaggio Group’s closet.

(Incidentally, for some first-hand experience with building and racing Laverdas during their golden era of the 1970s, I highly recommend you watch my conversation with Kenny Austin on the OddBike YouTube channel. Kenny’s first Laverda was a 750 SFC, to give you an idea of his fascinating history.)

Laverda 750 Super Sport

To understand the Zanè era of Laverda we need to go back to the late 1970s, to the tail end of the Breganze factory’s heyday. Following the success of Laverda’s 650/750 parallel twins and 1000 triples, a new, modern, mid-displacement twin was developed to offer a lighter, more nimble machine in the lucrative middleweight category.

Laverda 750 Super Sport

Interesting Links:
Zane Laverda Photo Gallery
Laverda V6 History on Silodrome.com
Kenny Austin interview on OddBike YouTube
Tuning Weber-Marelli Fuel Injection on OddBike YouTube
Moto-Guzzi MGS-01 on OddBike
Laverda 668 technical/service information
Bought on Bike-urious: Laverda 750S Caraneta Part I 
Bought on Bike-urious: Laverda 750S Caraneta Part II
Sport Rider review of the 650 Ghost
BreganZane.com

Laverda 750 S Formula II

Laverda 750 Brochure

Wait... WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?