Impression JvB-Ducati Scrambler
Vanishing point Hamburg
There is a story that I picked up somewhere: A man drives to work at six in the morning. But it doesn’t arrive. The friend waits in vain after work, believes in overtime. His work colleagues call two days later because they miss the company car. The man simply turned left at an intersection where he would normally have turned right. He’s been found. After five weeks. On the border with Kurdistan. I never thought that something like this could happen to me …
It’s a morning when the sky is the color of Paul Newman’s eyes. I am standing in Dormagen near Cologne on a narrow street with front gardens that look like from “Schoner Wohnen”. A motorcycle is parked in front of a brick house. Behind it stands a lanky man who presents the corresponding ignition key on the palm of his hand. “It’s a designer piece,” he says. “There’s only this one. It should stay as clean as it is. So watch out, drive around the place a maximum of two times and bring her back safely. ”No problem. Thats my job.
As a test editor, I’ve ridden an estimated 300 different motorcycles in eight years. From cheap buckets to high-tech rockets to super-expensive unique items. This one, I think, is simply number 301.
But something is different. When my hand grasps the ignition key, my heart suddenly beats irregularly. The air-cooled Italian two-cylinder wakes up slightly pensive at the push of a button. It is a 1000cc Ducati V2 that mobilizes 84 hp and is held in place by a tubular space frame. An engine that powers five Ducati models, all of which I’ve driven. But the world suddenly seems surreal. Fears trickle from my soul like powder snow. Pension? 67 is still a hell of a long time … dunning letter from the bank? Debt doesn’t cause pain! Bad problems? Is there in Iraq!
“I go?? in and pour me some coffee, “says the owner,” when you get back, just ring the bell. “I nod. Disengage! 30 zone, first course. The environment disappears from my perception. How quickly life changes. After a morning with three new pimples on your face, two flies swallowed while driving, dozens of red traffic lights plus two long traffic jams, you feel sweaty, thirsty and tired almost out of nowhere. This motorcycle by designer Jens vom Brauck lets planes start in my stomach that I had previously kept for the sight of my dream woman.
Red light. My heart is beating wildly How many times have I sat across from a beautiful woman on the S-Bahn. And not addressed them. It’s that simple. How many times have I stood in front of my supervisor and not told him to reconsider the decision. How often have I wished in the evening before going to sleep that I could simply live from my stomach…
The traffic light changes. green!
I have to go left.
And go right.
Bring her back safely, it shoots through my head. I will take care, I promise! But when is my business. Exit from town, heading north, freedom as the goal. Technically, my seductress is quickly described: Jens vom Brauck mercilessly tackled a multistrada with the Flex. Everything that seemed superfluous to him for puristic driving pleasure had to give way: fairing, rear, expansive exhaust. Parts such as the tank, lamp, handlebar, footrest system and silencer have been replaced by lighter ones. After this diet, the fats could be complained of as anorexic and are now called scramblers. She once weighed 221 kilograms. Now it feels light-footed like a Yamaha XT 500 … but it can be?
70 km / h, an estimated 40 degrees incline, a sign rushes past on the right: Acceptance. Loaded trucks are waiting in front of a gate. They must have scales, I think. Two minutes later in the yard of the container terminal: A man with a construction helmet comes up to me. It measures around 1.90 meters. And would have guaranteed a career as a sumo wrestler 10,000 air miles further east.
“Watt jibb ?? s?”
“I’d like to weigh the bike here. Is that possible?”
“Ne Duc, huh? I’ll make a date for them. “
Detlev F. feels and is 49. Next to him, the scrambler looks like a children’s bike. It’s 50 meters to the huge scales. He pushes. And reports from his life. The motorcycle fan met his wife 21 years ago. She gave him a choice: either her or his 500 Four. Mr. F. has been driving a car since then. The desire for a bike is still alive, however. “But it doesn’t matter where you don’t need any more deodorant,” he says, raising his arms. He means chopper. The scale shows 190 kilograms. I am easily confused. “It is exactly 25 kilos,” whispers Mr F. proudly. That may be enough for forty-tonne trucks. It was worth a try anyway.
What is so different from the 300 times before, how can a motorcycle throw all my values overboard, shake me up from the deepest sleep? On the one hand, there is the sitting position: it is like entering a strange room that you have lovingly furnished yourself. In direct comparison to a Multistrada, at 800 millimeters you sit exactly 50 lower and much closer to the ideally cranked LSL handlebar. This was realized through a self-made bench seat-tank combination plus LSL footrest system.
The Scrambler only has nine liters of fuel on board, but it gives me the feeling that after 300 two-wheeled one-night stands, I have finally found Mrs. Right. And JvB-Ducati does something else: its reduction to the essentials seems to be carried over to me. Suddenly there is only driving. Engine power. Brakes. Move. Living in the now, just for this moment. For every inch of travel. The scrambler reformats my internal hard drive, erases all cell phone numbers, and links my past to the present. It feels like I’m actually sitting on a 500 XT with gigantic pressure and the finest brakes. Because the motorcycle reacts playfully and incredibly directly to every steering impulse.
180 kilometers are behind me. The land becomes flatter. Place signs with picturesque names like Flintrup, Buttrup or Buddenbaum rush towards me. Here, in the German outback of East Westphalia, it often smells like pork. It seems that every second Aussiedlerhof specializes in fattening. Well, as you know, pigs are weighed before they are sold…
The scrambler stands ticking in the courtyard for less than three seconds, and a chain dog is already running towards me. Something is wrong with the animal. It no longer has a chain. There we are now. One of them would like to drive again. The other would probably like that too, but blocks the exit.
“What’s going on here? Bruno, on foot! “
“Maybe you have a scale and could weigh my motorcycle?”
A charming smile should emphasize my request. The farmer wears a Prince Heinrich hat. His torso is bare and completely hairy. His much too wide dungarees, which almost audibly plead for a 90-degree wash cycle, end in knee-high rubber boots. It looks like an eagle owl that you ask about its moulting.
“To weigh? The motorcycle? Now? It’s midday! “
“Should I today? come back in the evening? “
For a minute his gaze flicked back and forth between the Duc and me. Then he means to follow me. We weigh the scrambler on the pig scale. Bruno yelps, the farmer puts small weights on a plate-sized, dangling platform. “176.5 kilos,” he mumbled, “was only calibrated last week.”
I feel free, so easy. No wonder. The V2 pounds stoically between my legs. Although it runs jerkily below 3000 rpm, above it it converts gas commands directly into robust thrust. Lively, without annoying vibrations. Countless crankshaft revolutions later, the Teutoburg Forest rises from the distance. Curves! Now the unique piece shows me what it can do. Even the most hesitant thigh pressure changes direction. The very peculiar, wobbly steering behavior, which the Multistrada poured over with balance, is only partially noticeable. But the suspension, already designed quite tightly for the 244.5 kilogram heavier base vehicle, now looks rock-hard and also doesn’t respond well.
The frenzy of curves is over much too quickly, I slow down to a Golf II driver with hair like cotton candy. He sneaks through the town at 35 km / h, his car reaches 55 km / h on the country road. On his shelf in the rear: a parking disc. That makes sense. Solid center line as far as the eye can see. And it goes a long way, around four kilometers. I don’t have to have that now, I’m on the run, right??
“Your papers please!”
“The sun was low. The line looked broken, “I hear myself justified.
“Ever heard of sunglasses?”
The police officer drives a brand new Yamaha FJR. He purses his lips and circles the scrambler.
“An Italian, then. Also of the kind that sound broken when new. At first thought it was the new Buell. “
Well, the Americans would be happy about that.
“It’s a one-off,” I say, pointing to the red license plate, “the rattle comes from the dry clutch. The box is mechanically sound. ”
We listen to the sound together. When stationary, the V2 sounds, due to its design, as if a Duracell rabbit with hiccups is crouching in the case, shaking samba rattles filled with nails. Thank goodness the clatter is drowned out by the sonorous thud of the rear silencer.
“Borderline, but good,” says the law enforcement officer. “Where are you still going?”
Good question I think. “Somehow north.”
“Hamburg, have? me right? Anyone who already drives the great freedom will definitely want to visit it, right? “
Crossing a solid line is much more expensive than drawing one yourself. But Hamburg sounds good. I have to think about my father. In 1948 he had a ticket to Argentina in his pocket and wanted to start a new life over there. Germany was divided into four occupation zones, at the borders of which he had to show his ticket. Unfortunately, his ID too. My father was 20 at the time and did not come of age until a year later. You didn’t let him pass. The dream fell through because my grandpa asked him to take over the family business. How many times has he wistfully told this story to me, followed his lost dream? It doesn’t have to be South America. Reaching goals close to you is sometimes better than just dreaming about distant ones.
Dusk had already set in when I reached the port of Hamburg. The fragrant air smells of distance, salt and adventure. I look at the scrambler. 430 kilometers drive. The seat is hard and a little tight. Unimportant. Countless fly carcasses stick to the lamp, paintwork and rims. Anyway, a wet rag will fix that. Reluctantly, I open my cell phone.
“Took a little longer than planned,” I say.
“You can say that. Is the Duc at least still intact? “
“In pristine condition.” I pause, struggle to explain. Stammer something like, “When dreams come true and the day rolls out like a red carpet in front of you, the time has come to do what your gut tells you …” Silence on the other end of the line. “Yes, maybe you’re right,” says the voice. It sounds thoughtful.
When do I bring the scrambler back, she doesn’t ask.
Jens vom Brauck, 36, is a self-made designer and constructor from Cologne (portrait in MOTORRAD 5/2006). His scrambler based on the Multistrada was commissioned by Fighters magazine in cooperation with Ducati Germany and was raffled off as a highlight at the Fighterama 2007 trade fair. During the months of metamorphosis, von Brauck took a liking to the project and is currently developing a commercially available scrambler conversion kit based on the Ducati Monster. More about this on his website www.jvb-moto.com
Engine: air-cooled two-cylinder four-stroke 90-degree V-engine, one overhead toothed belt-driven camshaft, two valves per cylinder, desmodromic, injection, Ø 45 mm, bore x stroke: 94 x 71.5 mm, displacement 992 mm , Nominal power 84 HP at 8000 rpm, max. Torque 84 Nm at 5000 rpm, six-speed gearbox.
Chassis: tubular steel frame, 43 mm upside-down fork, central spring strut, wheelbase 1462 mm, steering head angle 66 degrees, spring travel f / r 165/141 mm, seat height 800 mm.
Conversion parts: crash pads, handlebars and footrest system from LSL, Aprilia paper air filter (not suitable for rain). Self-made: lamp mask, bench, tank, luggage rack. Changed manifold, Riwi brake discs, Ducati Monster subframe. Ducati performance parts: mirrors, performance manifold (Multistrada), Paul Smart Replica silencer from Termignoni, carbon fenders front and rear
Further information: www.jvb-moto.com
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