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Ducati 900 SS print

Scenes of a marriage

Six years of life with an Italian sports motorcycle is six years of struggle for a relationship. The greatest feelings of happiness and leaden resignation lie as close together as the perfect curve and the never-ending fiddling with the suspension or carburetor set-up. Why not stop anyway.

»To leave the Ducati 900 SS in good hands. Some technical extras, almost 10,000 kilometers, six years old, top-class runs, VB ————-, telephone ———. "I leave out driven by woman. Everyone thinks it’s closed. Formulating in my mind, I push up the garage door and brace myself for the sight. It’s the nicest motorcycle I’ve ever had. For a while now I’ve put a sheet over it. Well cared for, I should write. There is hardly a screw that is not polished by the incessant opening and closing. When does psychological addiction actually begin? It doesn’t matter, it appears in the newspaper and, to be on the safe side, in the retailer’s sales window. Now! I don’t give in any more. The beautiful summer afternoon is just right. I press the starter on a trial basis. Three months of idleness can be extremely demotivating for a Ducati. But no, she is wide awake immediately, rattling and trumpeting happily to herself. Don’t bother, honey. I pull the clutch, the rattle becomes quieter, first gear engages dryly, and we carefully roll out of the driveway. Think ?? the small steering stop, I remind myself. Into the city traffic and direction B 10. The narrow V2 jerks through the columns, rumbling and stomping. I perceive the constant theater briefly, then I habitually start it off with the accelerator and clutch. Driving slowly is not her thing. Tinkering around forever, separate chain tensioners, changed final translations. After all, it now only theaters under 2000 instead of over 3000 rpm. You can’t be ungrateful.
Still rolling between the last cars it turns green, I accelerate, the Duc hissing deeply, takes a deep breath, starts jumping as if unleashed and only seems to exhale deeply in the next tunnel. Ah! Your parade number. Back then I wanted a living, breathing motorcycle. Then I discovered her at the dealer, half a year old and just retracted. Returned by the first owner. Didn’t get along. It was also slightly disfigured by a leaking battery. Others get small kittens from the shelter.
The B10 turns east, and we cruise leisurely along the Neckar towards Esslingen. Actually, the dealer is a bit different, but the switchbacks over the virgin forest still have to be. Hands and feet slowly recognize the old places and the familiar tingling sensation. Yes, that’s the way it always was. We haven‘t driven here in forever. In the past once a week. That first summer, unforgettable. In the morning to work, in the evening to go shopping and then to the Welzheimer Wald. We get to know each other: triple clamp higher or lower, 170 or 180 tires, Pirelli or Dunlop, seventeen clicks at the front, seven at the back, or maybe more? Stern steeper or flatter. Everything seemed possible. Up to the 5000 kilometer inspection. Alone valves adjust almost 500 marks.
I turn into the virgin forest. Right at Baltmannsweiler the first serpentines, the Duc whistles up like on rails, the asphalt is perfect. I hit the gas, hit the straight – and there they are again. Almost forgot, those nasty misfires in the partial load range around 5000 rpm. Yes, yes, I know, it’s your own fault – the intake ports on the air filter inlet were removed, thus creating "difficult flow conditions". But the motorcycle suddenly pulled like a bull when I was playing around there. Hard to believe. Dynojet Stage 1 didn’t bring nearly as much pressure downstairs. The K&N-Sportluftfilter added a dose of temperament and sound, but revealed the dropouts all the more violently. Presumably Stage 2 should now go in and the trunk back on. But without an open exhaust system it might be of no use. Oh cheek, it’s starting again.
"Runs great" has to be back out. Maybe "runs great except in the partial load range at 5000 rpm". No matter. With relish I let her down the three turns to Winterbach. When it debuted in 19xx, the SS 750/900 was a real breakthrough in terms of comfort and everyday suitability by Italian standards. Finally a Duc for everyone and still as hot as an Italo had to be.
In front of the branch: left home, right to the dealer, straight ahead into the Lowenstein mountains. Straight. In the second year, the tinkering began. To make a good bike out of what I already knew was a mediocre motorcycle. The suggestions for improving the somewhat sluggish engine are adventurous, ranging from simple carburetor kits to modified black boxes to complete swap carburetors and open exhaust systems for thousands of marks. Thank goodness the injection system wasn’t there yet. The Dynojet kit level 1 cost around 200 marks and a nice afternoon in Helmut’s garage. A manageable investment, albeit without resounding success. For me it was still the only real motorcycle, an ingenious combination of charisma, power and attractiveness, the screwing through the beautiful, open tubular frame is a paradise.
The road leads up to Berglen in tiny curves. With humps and ruts the oath of revelation for every sports motorcycle. She drove me crazy here. With flapping handlebars and bucking rear. They said you’re too light for the strut. Well, at least for my strut. The ideal weight table in the bathroom says something else, but it doesn’t matter. I temporarily try a softer spring, but at some point the 800 Marks for a Technoflex shock absorber are due. I then spend half a Sunday with tester Monika Schulz on a miserable patchwork road to fine-tune the chassis. Tea result is terrific. It’s just too bad that two weeks later I’m driving the same route with a Japanese super sports car. A little green all-rounder that doesn’t even flinch on the lousy slopes. The first big crisis. I’m not recovering from it for a long time. She will never be like others. Never perfect. And I will probably never come to terms with it. Small things like dying speedometer drives, corroded oil temperature sensor cables or slipping clutch linings pull on the nerves.

We decide to take a trip. A vacation is either the rest or a new boost to an ailing relationship. The 900 series gets a small luggage rack and an opportunity to present undreamt-of touring qualities. So packed, we could travel together to the end of the world. Everything will be fine. Then I make the mistake. Secretly drive the little green thing again. Later Cagiva Grand Canyon and Bimota DB 4. Abyss open up. The same engine, but perfectly tuned with the injection system. Hard to recognize for temperament and strength. I feel like a junkgun at Starwars with my jet freak. For the first time I don’t feel like it anymore.

The relationship drags on, the after-work trips become less frequent, the sensitive Duc downright withers. In the fall of 1999, during a down to on a cylinder, I just dragged myself home, the clutch is now slipping to the gods, the brakes have become chunky as wood, the chassis is somehow strange, the control instruments one after the other open up and at some point it jumps just no longer on. She was then four years and 8,000 kilometers old.

A thunderstorm seems to be brewing in the north. The heat is getting more and more oppressive, but I drive and drive, the country road on and on, curve after curve. Probably the dealer has long since closed. The separation was a done deal at the time. And actually I just wanted to nurse her up a little so that she could sell. Actually. But then our most beautiful summer began. I spend wonderful hours in front of the stripped tubular space frame, dismantling the brakes, sorting clutch plates, buying another set of Fischer steel braided lines and Japanese NGK candles and plugs, and once again enjoying every single one of the beautiful parts, polishing, measuring, replacing, oils, grease, file and adjust. Then she drives better than ever. Nothing will come of the separation.

D.he thunderstorm seems to be serious, the sky is already turning a sulphurous yellow. We could just about make it home. I steer towards the valley, but halfway through it catches us, the first drops splash down, minutes later the road is a hand’s breadth under water. But the Duc snorkels undeterred like a submarine. Half an hour later we roll up at home, dripping, the good looks like after a mud fight. I paw her furtively. At least that way she can’t go to the dealer.

Technical specifications

Engine: Air / oil-cooled two-cylinder four-stroke 90-degree V-engine, one overhead camshaft driven by a tame belt, two desmodromic actuated valves per cylinder, bore x stroke: 92 x 68 mm, displacement 904 cm³, 78 hp (57 kW) 7300 rpm. Chassis: tubular steel frame, load-bearing engine, upside-down fork, central spring strut, directly hinged, tire size front 120/70 ZR 17, rear 170/60 ZR 17. Measured values: Top speed: 213 km / h, acceleration 0-100 km / h: 3.5 sec. Weight 195 kg with a full tank. Construction time: 19xx to 1997. New price 1997: 18,865 marks.

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