5 minute read
SOLO THRASH
AMERICAN MOTORCYCLIST • NOVEMBER 2021 1
At 9:30 on a Wednesday morning in July 1976, droning southbound toward Reno, Nev., on two-lane Highway 395, my brain struggled to stay awake as a tormented fight between consciousness and sleep raged aboard my 1973 Ducati 750 GT. The numbing fatigue from over 18 hours in the saddle made me vulnerable to the sweet, blissful slumber that whispered to me like a vixen. In such a state, this voice overpowered whatever judgment I had left, and I nodded off…
With a lazy 30 degrees of rake and a long 59-inch wheelbase, at speed the GT was as stable as a Baldwin locomotive, and so even with its pilot napping it didn’t change direction quickly. Instead,
RIDING WITH LADY LUCK
In the summer of 1976, riding a Ducati 750 GT 1,022 miles nonstop was like climbing the Matterhorn on a whim
BY JOHN L. STEIN
it almost imperceptibly banked left, like an airplane with faulty aileron trim. One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand; I was out for a three-count before my head lolled and I snapped awake — and realized the Ducati was heading toward the center line and a group of oncoming cars. Reflexively, I snapped the bars left, centered the bike, caught my breath and assessed the situation, my heart pounding like a piston. Only good fortune had saved me. I exited at the nearest sideroad and parked, walked into a nearby drainage culvert, sat down and just shook.
At only 22, I knew so very little. But I knew I’d been lucky. Really lucky.
RIDING WITH LADY LUCK
Confident, Not Competent
Ironically, what had brought me to this place was not carelessness, but confidence. In the simplest terms, I just wanted to get from British Columbia to South Lake Tahoe, Nev. That it was 1,022 miles nonstop — an “ironbutt” ride before such organized events existed — was pure coincidence. And so, largely
bereft of a plan, at 3 p.m. on a Wednesday, I nonchalantly bid my Canadian friends adieu, kickstarted the Ducati and headed south to the border. Summer meant daylight lasted until 10 p.m., so I rode happily and contentedly through Seattle on Interstate 5, and kept right on going.
Around 8 p.m. I exited to look for a campground, but after wasting both time and fuel chasing a bad lead, I gave up and rejoined the highway. Sleep? I’d deal with that later. Anyway, the Ducati’s silky 90-degree V-twin, tall gearing, stable steering and good ergonomics — at least for a 22-year-old — made it an agreeable touring companion. So agreeable, I didn’t even want or need a fairing: a drag handlebar
was perfect, and with a thumbscrew to lock the twistgrip, it even had rudimentary cruise control.
I didn’t know it at the time, but my long ride was a textbook example of the aviation principle “combination of adverse factors.” COAF is what leads to accidents when one small mistake, or adverse factor, combines with the next and the next, ultimately leading to a crash. My first failure was not creating a ride plan allowing for both rest and relief from the nighttime cold.
The tipping point came after midnight. After some 600 miles I had filled up on soup, a sandwich and coffee at a Denny’s in Grants Pass, Ore., and made the spontaneous and ill-advised decision to keep riding. I was already cold, but figured it would be daylight in just five hours.
Foolish Fuel Strategy
Nowadays trip computers calculate fuel range in real time, but in ’76 this required mile markers and mental math. Fortunately, the Duc at least had a trip odometer. At about 45 mpg the 4.5-gallon tank netted a 200-mile cruising range, including reserve. I knew reserve could take the bike about 20 miles, tops. So that meant once I hit 180 miles, at touring speeds I’d need gas within 17 minutes — not much notice.
Thus, while riding through Klamath National Forest near the California border at around 1:30 a.m., I grew anxious at the emptiness around me. There were simply no towns, and no road signs heralded any coming soon. The feeble lighting in the Smiths gauges didn’t reveal the odometer well, but there was enough light to see that I’d gone over 160 miles since the last fill-up. Finally, 179 miles into the tank, a sign appeared for little Yreka, 24 miles ahead. And about three
minutes later, the engine dropped a cylinder, indicating that the fuel level was low. Panic and adrenaline came next, and as I switched to reserve, a quick calculation showed I’d run dry about two miles short. And between my position and the upcoming onehorse town — if there was a horse at all — were nothing but rolling hills, darkness and cold.
There was only one thing to do — nurse the bike along, slow to 50 mph, tuck flat on the tank and use downhills to advantage by killing the engine and coasting, then restarting to power up the next hill. This was awkward and frustrating, and offered no guarantee of success.
Nearly Stranded
Shortly, the Duc dropped its front cylinder due to the shorter fuel line to that carb, and I knew I had, at best, a handful of seconds before it
