2005 Ducati Multistrada 1000DS
Ah, the ugly Eyetie duckling, the Fiat Multipla of motorcycles, the bike even the Ducatisti love to hate!
When it was suggested that I line one up for my next GSXR-replacement test ride, I snorted briefly, then thought... why not?
A quick check of the Haldanes website revealed that, yup, they had a used '05 in black up for grabs, and a short phone call later I was booked in for a lunchtime thrash the next day.
I purposely spent the following twenty four hours avoiding any online reading relating to the Multistrada. If I was going to ride it, I didn't want to be prejudiced. For that matter, I didn't even know what it was supposed to be. Was it a tourer? A trailie? An overdressed motard? A 'standard'? I couldn't really tell from photographs.
Lunchtime today, and I rolled up to Haldanes on my colleague's K1200RS (he's good like that). Wandering in, I saw no black Multistrada on a showroom floor packed with shiny new GSXRs, Monsters, and 1098s. I introduced myself to Richard the sales guy, who welcomed me and mentioned rather shamefacedly that the bike in question was having a few 'minor issues' with its starter solenoid, and the boys out the back were just getting it fired up (translation: bump starting it) as we spoke. It would, apparently, be a very bad idea for me to stall it on my ride.
Oooookay then.
An unmistakable dry-clutch clatter out the front of the shop heralded the arrival of, well... a pretty darn ugly bike.
A few more quick words with Richard, and I hopped on. The seat wasn't as high as the trailie-like stature of the bike makes it appear; I could comfortably flat-foot it on both sides.
Pulling away and turning onto Great South Road, I was immediately struck by the ditch-pump rattle of the 1000cc air-cooled twin and stock exhaust. If a 1098 growls like a tiger stalking prey in the jungle, then a Multistrada clatters like a 1960s Singer hemlocking curtains in a basement. A brief grin crossed my face as I realised that on this test ride, no roadworking crews would be turning to watch my bike.
However, that wasn't the only reason for my grin. The Multistrada has, beyond a doubt, the most comfortable seat-pegs-handlebars geometry of any bike I've ridden. One simply sits on the bike, and everything falls to hand (or foot) without a single unnecessary twitch of a muscle or twist of a joint. It's a beautiful feeling.
I began my usual run up the motorway to Albany, the bike rattling away beneath me. I was soon surprised to find, the first time I tried an experimental nudge on the bars, that the ugly duckling twitched beneath me like a genuine thoroughbred. Curiouser and curiouser, I thought, adding a small handful of throttle in fourth gear, at which point, much to my surprise and delight, the bike positively squirted.
'Instant loss of licence' speeds in heavy motorway traffic through downtown Auckland are not recommended, ladies and gentlemen. In my own defence, however, such was the friendliness of my thoroughbred duckling and its ditch pump that I didn't realise I was proceeding at such velocity. A glance down at the digital speedo shortly before the Harbour Bridge shocked me into slamming the throttle closed and letting the noticeably-muscular engine braking haul me down to a pace more in line with the cars around me.
Having escaped detection, I made my way to the Albany hill and repeated the roll-on I tried with the Harley on Monday. 160kph in fifth gear before the first bend was quite enough reassurance that there was enough power here to accomplish anything I was likely to want to do on this ride.
Banking into the sweepers up the hill, I was struck by the way the bike felt, and it started to dawn upon me that this was, in fact, a fair dinkum high-performance motorcycle.
Onto the Coatesville-Riverhead road, and, oh yes. The bike's moving underneath me like a living thing, grabbing corners and flinging them out behind it, dancing down the road, and I'm smiling, grinning, looking down at the speedo. This is faster than I've ever been down this road before. Faster than I've done it on a GSX-R1000, a Z1000, an MV Agusta F4-1000 or my own GSX-R750.
I don't know what suspension components the Multistrada has, and I don't care. It handles so easily; so light, so communicative, so organic.
The engine comes alive, too, as I start grabbing more throttle. Oddly enough for a litre-displacement twin, it loves to rev. Less than 4000rpm leaves it unhappy, but above 4000 it swings fast and furious straight to the 9000rpm limiter. I hook gear after gear, brush the enormously effective front brake every so often, and skip and scrape my way northwest until I crest the rise above the first straight section on Peak Road.
A quick scan ahead and around confirms a hazard-free environment, so I tuck my helmet behind the odd little screen and give her full throttle in fifth, then sixth. The frantic pulling slows at about 185 in top gear, and the bike gently accelerates its way to an indicated 201 just before it's time to brake for a 55kph signposted lefthander.
A haul on the lever and a couple of dabs on the gearshift set me up, and as I let out the clutch, swing out a knee and ease the bars into the corner, I suddenly realise something's not quite right... I've thrown the gearbox straight into a false neutral between fourth and fifth.
I must say, freewheeling into a 55kph corner at about 110 is interesting, to say the least.
A little reminder from the gods of motorcycling: you're not on a Suzuki now, Mr Random.
The briefest touch of rear brake and a generous serving of arse-puckering later, I straighten up, clonk about with the gearshift until the engine reconnects with the drivetrain, and cruise in to Kaukapakapa.
Mindful of Richard's warning about the lack of a starter, I turn left and left the bike running while I hop off to examine it. Still a millimetre or so of chicken strip on the rear Avon Azaro. Plenty of handling envelope left; I wasn't riding anywhere near the bike's limits.
Hopping back on, I head down SH16 bound for Helensville and back into town. A minute or two later, I'm mildly surprised in a long left-hand sweeper to feel the toe of my Sidi scraping along the road. I'm having fun!
After Helensville, it's a placid pootle back down the highway, onto the motorway and south to Penrose to sadly return the little Ducati Corse keyring and ooze my way back to the office through traffic on the BMW.
Surprised? Yes, I was surprised. Surprised and delighted, because I've never before ridden a bike that spoke to me so plainly, that almost begged me to tango along the road and conveyed such sheer light-hearted joy in the way it skipped over the tarmac.
Comfortable, unexpectedly and deceptively quick, ugly as sin, and I didn't want to get off it.
As I fastened up my jacket to leave, Richard said I could have the Ducati for $14,000. He'll never know how tempted I was.
Hold me closer, tiny dancer
Count the headlights on the highway
Lay me down in sheets of linen
You had a busy day today...
kiwibiker is full of love, an disrespect.
- mikey
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Originally Posted by merv
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