[Ducati] Confessions (part one)

[Ronald Betts]

Great stuff Ted. Cant wait for the next installment. Oh and Just to name a 
few of the bikes I had as a kid, Bultaco 250 Pursang and an Astro, 441 BSA 
Victor, 450 Ducati Desmo Sport, Penton Six Days Replica, An Ossa , A 
Montesa, lots of Asian Stuff and a CZ, just to name a few. Damn If I kept 
them all .........Sheesh !


Peace...Ron"Desmohead"Betts 95 900 SP
I've learned that I don't suffer from insanity, I enjoy it!





>From: "Ted & Vicki Brisbine" <brisbine at charter.net>
>Reply-To: Ducati Owners Group <ducati at ducati.net>
>To: <ducati at ducati.net>
>Subject: [Ducati] Confessions (part one)
>Date: Fri, 30 Jun 2006 13:09:52 -0700
>
>Ron"Desmohead"Betts wrote:
>
>"I was 15 and a half and had a Honda Super 90 with a cut off Blooey tube of
>an exhaust and a learners permit in my pocket. "
>
>I'm sure a lot of us old farts started out on a Honda S90.  I did.  I first 
>saw one at a home show in 1964 and I still have the brochure.  If you liked 
>the Yamaha chapter I might as well post the whole thing.  As you might 
>guess, it ends with a new Ducati.  Ted       The first installment is...
>
>The Garage
>
>The thought crossed my mind, as thoughts sometimes do, that if I were rich 
>I would round up a pristine example of every street-legal motorcycle I have 
>ever owned. Wouldn't it be fun to just have them around as a monument to my 
>lifelong passion for two-wheeled contrivances? I could turn my garage into 
>a shrine. Ah, the garage. Wouldn't it be nice just to find my garage? 
>Actually I can see the outside of it, but opening the door is like finding 
>a portal to another dimension. You've seen the pictures of a small building 
>with an open door through which you can see the inside of a vast palace. My 
>garage is just like that, only opposite. The garage looks spacious but once 
>inside, the intrepid adventurer finds no safe place to stand.
>
>Then the thought crossed my mind, as thoughts are sometimes wont to do...I 
>wouldn't actually have to be rich. What's this? Two thoughts coming so 
>close together! This must mean something. This must be my DESTINY! I have 
>only had six street-legal bikes and I still have four of them. I'm almost 
>there. If only I could just clean out the garage. What's a measly six 
>motorcycles when I once put the count at thirteen bikes in the garage and 
>its environs? At least half of those belonged to my kids and of course they 
>didn't all work. Maybe the kids could help me clean out the garage. Where 
>are those kids when you need them? This whole garage conundrum is their 
>fault anyway. (I delude myself.) How dare they leave a lot of useless stuff 
>behind? When I'm dead, they'll just have to come and clean it out, just 
>like I had to clean my old stuff out of my parent's garage when they died.
>
>When it comes to a clean garage full of pristine motorcycles, I really am 
>just dreaming. Besides, another challenge looms on the horizon. Even if I 
>could locate the missing cycles. Even if I could perform some magical 
>garage exorcism, I'd still have to get the two missing bikes past the 
>German border guard. "Oh, hi Vicki. Nice day isn't it. What do you mean, 
>'What is that big lump under the tarp?' No, I don't think those look like 
>handlebars. Do you?" Some risks are just not worth taking.
>
>The sickness
>
>Talk about a dream come true. The day I bought my first bike still dances 
>through my memory like a sugarplum fairy. I've done exhaustive research on 
>this and found no other kid in the entire history of kid-dom who wanted a 
>bike more than I did. My poor teenage body was wracked with want. I used to 
>ride my bicycle to the places where enviable young brats rode their Yamaha 
>80s and Honda 90s up and down over dirt mounds, leaving excruciatingly 
>beautiful tracks with their knobby tires. I would stare longingly at those 
>tire prints, trying to imagine the feeling of power as the tire digs into 
>the dirt and the lucky rider is thrust forward with no effort or peddling.
>
>One memory that remains especially vivid is that of a midsummer evening in 
>1965 when my cousin Darrel, another life-long motohead, gave me a ride on 
>his Bridgestone 90. He had bravely ridden the little ring-a-ding thing 100 
>miles from Othello to Wenatchee. If I close my eyes I can still savor that 
>warm evening air as we crossed the bridge and I felt the exhilaration of 
>being a teenager on the town, free from parental constraints, and drinking 
>in the fresh, wide-open feeling that can only be had on a motorcycle. 
>Suddenly all things were possible.
>
>When even the most humble of bikes promised two-wheeled nirvana, the sight 
>of young Terry (brat) Swystun riding his custom painted Honda 250 
>Scrambler, with its sonorous twin side-pipes, was just too much injustice 
>to bear. Even when no one was around I could feel the presence of 
>two-wheeled ghosts and hear the distant songs of internal combustion 
>hanging in the air like the final notes of an Italian opera.
>
>In the days when any vacant lot was fair game for some two-wheeled fun, one 
>such hallowed riding spot was Skyline Drive. It had some great little hills 
>and benches, with a spider web of bike trails. On this very spot, feared 
>moto-knight Terry Wadkins was reputed to have jumped his Greeves over the 
>head of an unsuspecting rider. So help me God, a Greeves! (Spoken with 
>quavering voice) The very name of this savage beast sent shivers up the 
>spine of any punk mounted on a Japanese trail tiddler. I was so desperate I 
>would have settled for a Honda step-through Tail 90, which was almost a 
>girl's bike! Anything that would have put a throttle twist-grip in my hand 
>and leave behind a glorious legacy of tire tracks in the dirt.
>
>The big roadblock here was another border guard who went by the innocuous 
>sounding appellation of Mom. You've seen the movie A Christmas Story? No 
>wonder I relate so well to Ralphie in his lust for that Red Rider air 
>rifle, only to be told "you'll shoot your eye out". Ralphie was only nine 
>when finally entrusted with a firearm - of sorts. I had spent years 
>watching kids younger than myself, gleefully tearing around on tote-goats 
>and trail bikes. At the ripe old age of sixteen I was in possession of a 
>driver's license and an Oldsmobile, but still no motorcycle of any kind. I 
>felt like I had been sentenced to life as a Benedictine monk. OK. I know 
>what you're thinking. Bring out the violins.
>
>Finally, after months of cunning, calculated, arm twisting I convinced the 
>border guard that a "little" bike couldn't be anything but harmless. With a 
>sigh of resignation mom finally uttered the blessed words "Oh, I guess it'd 
>be alright". Hallelujah, Amen! The border cross-arm gate had suddenly swung 
>upward . for me! I was a free man. I played it cool though, waiting until 
>out of sight around the corner before doing the Toyota Jump (or whatever we 
>might have called it back then) and throwing a fist into the air.
>
>Next.  The Chrome Bullet
>
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