Cycle News - Archive Issues - 2000's

AUGUST 9, 2006 • C Y C L E N E W S 86 BY PAUL CARRUTHERS TEARDOWN T he Ducati Desmodici is lit- tered with trick parts. Car- bon fiber here, carbon fiber there. But when you crest the hill that is turn one of Mazda Raceway Laguna Seca on the back of the Desmodici two-seater, your arms wrapped around one of the true lunatics of Grand Prix racing lore, there are only two parts that you care about. And they would be the two aluminum handles affixed to the Ducati's fire- engine-red fuel tank. Carbon fiber, tarbon shmiber, desmod- romic valves, hedonistic calves... At that point in time, those two handles are the greatest feat of engineering to ever come out of Italy. They are your lifelines. The rest of it is just 326 pounds of some snarling animal that you're certain was made for one purpose and one purpose only: to scare the living crap out of you. Hold on to the handles and live. Let go and... Well, letting go wasn't an option. In fact, there was really only one time that I thought about letting go and that was on lap one of my two-lap jaunt around Laguna Seca with Randy Mamola. I wasn't going to commit suicide and let go with both hands, but I was seriously contemplating taking one off in order to throw roundhouse rights into Randy's ribcage. We were half a lap in and I was suddenly wishing I'd been the lucky bas- tard with the heart problem who hadn't passed the impromptu physical they'd given us in the Clinic Mobile. Turns out, his resting heart rate was higher than Lance Armstrong's while climbing L'Alpe d'Huez. But at this point, I figured he was the lucky one. Instead, I started yelling, my choice of words not very good: "No faster! No faster!" Luckily Mamola couldn't hear a word I screamed as it would have been easy for him to translate that into "go faster, go faster." Like he needed any prodding to scare the bejesus out of me. So how did I get here? Simple enough - I was sitting in the circus tent of a press- room in the paddock on Friday morning, minding my own business when Laguna PR guy Reece White walks up and says, "Paul, there's an open spot to ride the Ducati two-seater. You interested?" So the saintly little Paul on my right shoulder instantly starts brushing him off. But to my left is the big, devilish Henny Ray Abrams. "He'll do it," Abrams said. What followed was four hours of tor- ture. The wait. The agonizing faces of family members. My father telling me that he was embarrassed of me for the first time in his life - embarrassed that I was stupid enough to actually consider getting on the back of a motorcycle with Randy Mamola. Why had he spent the money on a college education? Then there was the aforementioned physical. Lying on the table, all hooked up. Blood pressure, heart rate... damn, I've passed. With an hour or so to go before the ride, I'd worked myself into a sweat- inducing frenzy. And the stuff I'd been telling myself for the past three hours suddenly wasn't working: Hey, I'd ridden fast motorcycles around racetracks all over the world; I wasn't just some guy coming off the couch, some guy who had- n't even broken the speed limit in his car. Fortunately, there was Leti Coo, a television reporter from Desportes Telemundo who looked as if she could have been Miss Mexico 2006. If I was scared, she was borderline hysterical. And I spent enough time trying to reassure her, that it actually helped me. That feeling would pass, however, every time I looked at my son, Kyle. He couldn't do anything but look at me and shake his head. One thing about getting to do the two- seater is that you're treated like a factory star. You get the full treatment from Alpinestars - fitted in leathers, boots, gloves (you get to keep the gloves!), an Arai helmet and T-shirts and other swag. If you're into that sort of thing, it'll go a long way toward tempering your fear. But, trust me, it's only temporary. Before long, it was time. I was sched- uled to go fourth, but that turned into third because of a mix-up on the list. That was a good thing. It caught be by surprise when they said I was next, and didn't give me any time to break into a dead sprint for the parking lot and my awaiting rent-a-car. Leti ended up going first and came back smiling, though, I could tell it was fake. She'd only done one lap, at her request, and I could tell that Randy knew how scared she was and rode accordingly. He wouldn't give a rat's ass as to how scared I was, so I didn't bother telling him. My ride of a lifetime was coming whether I liked it or not. "First lap was a warm-up lap, second lap more of a flyer," Randy told me. "Hold on and do what I do," he added. "I'll be able to tell by your arm pressure around me as to how hard I can brake." That was useful information. If I only knew exactly what that meant. Okay, so if I hold on all loosey-goosey, does that mean he'll take it easy and slow down, or does that mean I'm doing great and he'll speed up? And if I hold on real tight, does that... I'm not even sure why I thought about it because it didn't matter. One minute I was throwing my leg over the Ducati and the next minute, he's slamming through the gears like a bat-wielding 5-year-old at a piñata party. We crested the hill for turn one and I thought that lunch from three Laguna Seca's ago was coming up. Turns out, it was just my heart and stomach swapping places in a sort of internal-organ swing dance. Then we got to test out that "see how much arm pressure you apply" thing that Randy was talking about. And with Randy firing the Ducati off into turn two, I have a feeling that I wasn't even in the same ZIP code as loosey-goosey. In fact, I thought there was a chance those trick little handles were going to snap off in my hands. Or the handles would stay and my hands would snap off at the wrist. Either way, the outcome wasn't going to be pretty. But I survived Braking 101 and went straight into Corner Speed 101. That part was cool and I could almost relax. Then came Acceleration 101, which I think Randy may have majored in. Still cranked over - way over - he feeds on the gas and the bike wheelies out of two near the curb and suddenly we're in three (hey, wasn't there a straightaway there last time I rode here?). To make a long story short, that first lap was horrific - with a capital H. Hell, with a capital everything. As I said earlier, I wanted to throw jabs on the entrance to the Corkscrew, but I didn't. While every- one else warned me about Randy, there's really not anyone else I'd have felt safer with. I've spent time talking to him about the responsibility of doing these two-up rides, and he takes them very seriously. He may be the biggest goof-off to ever put on Alpinestars (nice little plug for one of the two-up sponsors, huh?), but when his helmet goes on and there's a passen- ger behind him on a zillion-dollar Ducati, he's all business. We started lap two with a flying run up the front straightaway and the thought suddenly crossed my mind that I was starting what I think he referred to as a "flyer." And that last one... well that was the warm-up lap, silly. Okay, something had to change. For one, breathing would become essential. One lap while holding one's breath is okay, two laps holding one's breath... not so good. Once we crested the turn-one hill for the second (and last!!!) time, my strategy changed. At that point, I relaxed a bit, and told myself to believe that I was riding the bike. It helped, though I started moving around a bit, which made Randy a tad nervous - at least that's what he told me later. If the first lap was horrific, then the second lap... Well, that was horrific as well. But more fun - for two reasons: I was more relaxed, and I was almost finished. People who saw me hours after my ride said there was still a protruding vein in my neck, and the adrenaline was flowing hours later. I had a hard time shutting up over it and would talk to anyone willing to listen. The adrenaline rush really was like none other. Would I do it again, they all asked? You know... college education be damned - I think I would. Maybe. CN Wild Ride

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