RockMoto

So, you think you have a hot bike on your hands, eh? The fastest around. The trickest. The most expensive. The coolest. Ha.

There are days when I’ve got everyone in the whole blessed country covered. No matter who they are, no matter where, no matter how much dosh they’ve got banked.

Now, mostly, most would agree that I’m a fairly mild mannered and modest motorcyclist. Encouraging others to take it easy, enjoy the ride, get home safe. Viewing all of motorcycledom as a varied but still somehow connected family. Sometimes, though, just once in awhile, just for a wee bit ’o delicious fun, biking is about unabashed, in-yo-face bragging rights. And I do partake.
Ducati Desmosedici for $72K? Commoner transportation. Six-figure MV Agusta F4CC?Get over yourself, piker. Nothing, but nothing, beats a genuine MotoGP bike. Particularly one with a big yellow number 46 looming large on the nose.
That’s right. We’re talking about one of a very small, exclusive handful of machines built for Signor Valentino Rossi. You’ve heard of him. He’s seen a lot on global television during summer Sundays. Eight-time World Champeen. Elfin tormentor of wishful wannabes from hemispheres top and bottom.
Well, this is his bike. Right about one meeeeellion dollars in sheer parts, bodywork, nuts and bolts alone. Don’t even talk about R&D expenses. That amounts to stupidmoney. Only months ago, this was possibly the single best-performing motorcycle on the planet. So how exactly do I get my grubby little paws on such a crown-jewel machine, of which I am completely, unashamedly unworthy?
It’s my job. I work at DTM to help tell the story of motorcycling to a bigger audience, through mainstream media coverage in newspapers, magazines, on TV and on Web sites. I’m a PR guy for two-wheeling. That means I sometimes have the great privilege of briefly putting my hands on some of the greatest motorcycles and riding them. Over the years, I’ve been continually astonished at just how much better and better bikes truly become as they evolve and advance. They're all music to my ears.
Sometimes it’s the latest cruiser. Sometimes it’s a brand new sport bike. Sometimes it’s a dirt bike. Sometimes it’s No. 46, the best there is. OK, so this particular Rossi bike may not actually run. I’m not sure it even has those four, extremely valuable, hand-caressed pistons and con-rods still inside. Its glory days are over. The bike only has to look good now. And oh, does it ever. Its glow even makes me look presentable for a few moments. Kind of like if you could take Angelina Jolie to the prom.
And one day out of the year, it’s mine, all mine - to push up and down the hills around the Ritz-Carlton golf links at Half Moon Bay, where they’re having the Legend of the Motorcycle Concours d’Elegance. I’ll push it and park it, all so that fans can have a good close-up whiff and so we can help get some beneficial media coverage for the event and for motorcycling.
You know, a MotoGP bike may be made of equal parts carbon fiber, magnesium, titanium, compacted pixie dust and unicorn hooves, but it’s still 326 pounds, per the FIM minimum weight rules. And it’s still subject to those unflinching laws of physics. I push on the low, stubby clip-ons and make the steady, steep climb to the ocean overlook, the place of honor where this machine rightly belongs. I might be out of breath. I might be drizzling sweat. I might have a pair of searing calves, screaming at me for a break while gravity giggles away. But if ya gotta schlep, then schlep large, brother, schlep large. TY