MOTO GUZZI 1200 SPORT

by Klink

"The worst carbuncle was the dash"

Still life with Patterson's Curse

Lafranconi - a blast from the past

It's not often that someone calls me up and asks me what bike I would like to ride to Phillip Island. Not just some crapulous cruiser, but any bike currently on sale in Australia.

"The Dream Ride" was a splendid idea. A bunch of us would ride our personal dream motorcycles to the 2007 MotoGP. Digital and print media would caress us for the rights. The organisation would be hell of course. But that was Borrie's problem, not mine. He was waiting for my answer with the poorly concealed impatience of the logistically stressed.

"I'll have a BMW K1200S" I replied. Fabulous gadget. I'd ridden one around Eastern Creek on a BMW day, and I could think of nothing better for the journey, except perhaps my own BMW R1200R.

"How does a Moto Guzzi 1200 Sport sound?" Boris replied.

My heart sank. It looked like the Dream Ride was going to be someone else's dream. Brother Silverback's in fact, who had scratched his fixture after requesting the new Moto Guzzi.

"OK. I'll ride anything but another gawdawful cruiser", I replied glumly.

First Impressions

"It's a bag of arse." That was my one sentence review of the Guzzi when someone asked. I'd only been riding it an hour. Ten days later I had one of the best rides of my life on it. I must stop jumping to conclusions.

We were at Mick's palatial country property to pick up the Dream Ride bikes.

Like many forty-something motorcyclists, I thought Moto Guzzi's apogee was the 850 Le Mans Mk1 of 1976. Back in the 1970s Guzzi's bullet-like icon had been neck-and-neck with Ducati's 750 and 900 to be the hardcore sports bike.

Unencumbered by any Moto Guzzi riding experience of any kind, I considered that each future model released had been, without exception and contrary to market trends, just a little bit worse than its predecessor. I'd certainly not been convinced by recent models, which seemed to use retro looks to excuse retro engineering. Only Harley can get away with that shit. Moto Guzzi had lost the plot and seemed in no danger of catching up.

This prejudice had not been swept away by my initial contact with the 1200 Sport. A committee of artistic prima donnas must have designed this bike. The worst carbuncle is the dash, where some arsehat has blended old-fashioned, white faced clocks with an over-styled and hard to read LCD screen, then sprinkled idiot lights over the whole thing so it looks like hundreds 'n' thousands on three cup cakes.

The front bikini fairing has been plagiarised, and badly, from a Ducati Monster. The tank, while having a nice overall shape with plenty of room for the knees, has strange plastic chrome protuberances at the front. The front mudguard has more swoops and whirls than a greaser's hairdo. The "CARC" single-sided swing arm / drive-shaft looks like it was made from trees. Only the rear light has any real visual class.

When I sat on it, I contracted an instant case of ducks' disease: my arse was very, very close to the ground. Since the footpegs were quite high and rear set, I feared that anyone with reasonably long legs (like me) would soon be profoundly uncomfortable. Although the gloss black handlebar is of a Ducati Monster-emulating bend and width, the reach from the duck's seat is long. "A classic Italian riding position?" I thought, "?long arms and short legs".

When we rode off to do a little filming, the Guzzi and I were in the company of an MV Agusta 312R, a GSX-R 1000 turbo and similar tackle. There was a noticeable horsepower deficit. Many bikes would seem a bit flaccid in such company, including my own BMW R1200R. But even that 1200cc air-cooled V-Twin has noticeably more power than the 1200 Sport.

"A bag of arse" I said. And I meant it.

The Dream Ride

Packing for Phillip Island, I noticed the bike has four good bungee hooks. Once I removed the seat hump, loading it up was a breeze. The bike was fitted with Metzeler's excellent M3s and brakes were Brembo all round. Despite the incongruous boy racer rotors on the front end, I knew the safety angle was fine.

Firing the Sport up was mildly irritating. One can't just turn the key and hit the button. Oh no. It is necessary for the cup cakes to do a little dance and all the hundreds'n'thousands to light up in a cute arc before the starter will turn.

Once going, an old-fashioned burble is emitted from the non-standard "race" pipe. I leaned over and checked it out. Lafranconi. Now there's a blast from the past. The burble changed to an urgent and aggressive bellow when I twisted the throttle. I felt my lips unpurse from their cat's arse of displeasure and twitch upwards at the corners. I was smiling. Just a little bit.

0500, Wednesday, October 10th. Not a fit time for civilised men. On the other hand, perfect for the men of BIKE ME!, who, as Hunter S Thompson would have said, laugh at what's funny and shit on the chests of the weird.

Still half asleep, I couldn't help noticing that the fuelling through the "race" ECU was impeccable. Not a stumble or glitch anywhere, any time. When I slowed for the first junction, the exhaust growl on the over-run sounded like Pavarotti in the karzi. Fantastic.

I arrived at Schloss Mihailovic at 0530.

By 0600 the Dream Team were riding. And this time I didn't lose the bastards 200 metres from Boris' front door. If I couldn't lane split a Guzzi better than someone on a Honda Rune I'd hang up my helmet.

By the time we stopped for fuel in Goulburn my loathing for the Guzzi had not increased. On the over-policed Hume, the Guzzi's relative lack of screaming, top-end power was a non-issue. On the other hand, its abundance of torque, which threw you down the road with every twitch of the throttle, made the motorway easy, and almost amusing. The throbbing V-Twin made me come over all 1970s again, which is a happy place for the Klinkster. Even the strange, platyrhynchos-like riding position was not creating the aches and pains I'd feared. Wind blast was negligible behind the stolen monster bikini fairing. I was settling into the 1200 Sport.

"By the time we stopped for fuel in Goulburn my loathing for the Guzzi had not increased."

We came off the Hume at Gundagai. By Tumut, I was laughing with the sheer pleasure of life. Partly because our two fastest riders: Mick and Dino, had stopped to fix a persistent oil leak on the turbo Gixxer. Partly because it was a beautiful spring morning and the sun was shining. But mostly because we were on sweeping roads through fields and hills covered in the purple flowers of Patterson's Curse. Roads the Moto Guzzi seemed made for.

As we rode on through Corryong to Kiewa, Boris and I got into a rhythm with the rolling road. At speeds that were (hypothetically) 120 to 190 km/h, the Guzzi sang. While Boris' right hand had control of nearly twice as many horses as mine, it seemed as if the Guzzi's natural pace was sufficient for what remained of Boris' driving license.

As our route tracked on through the Alpine region, I found my control over the Guzzi was unlike anything I'd ridden. A motorcycle I'd only ridden a few hundred kilometres and already I was in the zone. Despite our speed, everything was happening slowly and everything was easy. Safety margins seemed huge. Only the tilting horizon, the roar of the 1200cc V-Twin and the G-force in the bends suggested otherwise.

Approaching Callangatta I slowed down and leant back, enjoying the thunderous snore of the overrun. Boris came up beside me and cuffed me for being naughty.

Then we stopped to let the others catch up. It took a long time.

The rest of the journey was similar. Only the final stage up and over the hills from Mt Beauty to Bright did the road become tight and technical. The slow steering Guzzi was not set up for such conditions and eventually the Speed Triple and the tuned MT-01 got past me. Despite being out-manoeuvred, the Guzzi and I maintained our special relationship and we negotiated the tight hairpins with aplomb, the Lafranconi exhaust alternately roaring then rumbling.

As I said: One of the best rides of my life.

"One of the best rides of my life."

We arrived in Bright at about 1630. Boris immediately left for the pub where he personally drank the hotel's entire stock of Hoegaarten.

Island Mick, Cricky, Wayne, Marty, Suzii and Repete were there and a bunch more BIKE ME! members. It was a good night, but I had to sleep.

The next day involved some shooting for AMCN at Mt Hotham and then riding down to Phillip Island through the most over-policed roads in Australia and perhaps the world.

The weather became cold and wet. The magic was over.

Fortunately I was able to recapture the magic on my solo return journey. The sunny weather had returned and as I rode back north, that special sense of oneness with the 1200 came back too.

My friendship with the Guzzi nearly came to a sudden end when I parked it on a slanting surface and the weight of my luggage caused it to start to tip over. I caught it. The sidestand is too far forward and a heavy weight on the rear of the bike will cause it to overbalance on anything but a level surface.

And that's the only really objective criticism I can make of the bike. The rest of it?

Style? is always subjective. Power? want more? Buy a gixxer. Riding position? worked for me.

Would I buy one?

Hmmm.

I got in the zone with this bike sooner and stayed there longer than with any other bike I've ridden for quite some time. The Lafranconi exhaust and chip would be essential. Then I'd just have to replace that hideous dash with an aftermarket number, and finally put the whole bike on a stringent diet, starting with replacing those old-school brake and clutch master cylinder reservoirs with something sexy from eBay. The plastic chrome would have to go too.

But when I'd finished, I'd have a bike I could keep for the rest of my life.