“All my life, I’ve wanted to do something big.” This is what the subtitle of the 2005 movie ‘The World’s Fastest Indian,’ masterfully played by Anthony Hopkins, states. The movie is based on a true story, as is the story we have here. The only difference being that we started our journey to reach the salt flats of Utah from Italy, and not New Zealand. The final goal was the same – to be the fastest in the whole world.
For the last 20 years as a biker, I’ve ridden to some diverse places – competitions, night raids, Sunday outings with my girlfriend, and some truly epic feats. And, in 2008, when I raced the Pikes Peak Hill Climb, I thought I had reached the pinnacle of my career. What more could I aim at? But, instead, here I am with a new adventure. This is an absurd and enthralling story that I’m going to tell you through the words of Gioi and Lucio, travel companions for a trip that we’re all going to remember for a lifetime.
Gioi Talaio’s take: Good Job
It was a warm evening in July. We were sipping chilled beer to beat the sweltering humidity. Lucio, Cristian and I were sitting around a wooden table – like the ones you find in traditional pubs – telling each other stories, when Cristian suddenly says: “Guys, let’s go to America. I want to try to break the speed record achieved on the Bonneville Salt Flats. I’m going to take you along. We’ll also check out Las Vegas.” He had convinced me simply by mentioning Bonneville.
That solitary walk to the starting line is the moment when the rider is all alone. The world around him disappears and he focuses on a possible record-breaking ride to the finish line. But, in Bonneville, you are in unknown country.
We left on the 19th of August with no clue about what we were going to face. We didn’t know a single detail, and that made the simple act of packing our stuff a hard task in itself. Once we landed in Salt Lake City, we jumped on board our V8 powered pick-up truck, and headed straight to the city of lights and casinos. We ended up staying in the city’s landmark Hard Rock hotel. Since we were there, we couldn’t skip visiting Los Angeles, Santa Monica, Hollywood and Malibu.
But times flies, and we had to head back to Salt Lake City. A drive of 800 miles (about 1,300 kilometres) through the Death Valley was ahead of us. A seemingly infinite journey on straight roads that led directly into the horizon. There is not a soul in sight during the long drive through the Rocky Mountains – with just sand on either side of the road. Just before the Utah border, we met the rest of the team – Jamie Robinson, and his father Phil. The former, a rider who was going to share the bike with Cristian, the latter, a technical expert – like Lucio.
After roaming around America for couple of thousand kilometres, we were eventually in queue for the legendary event. The hunt for marking the speed record by a bike on the salt flats was officially open. Immediately, a strange feeling assaults us. Everybody greets us, shakes our hands and looks curiously into our van. Here, Ducati bikes are objects of worship – and our Panigale 1199 is an absolute rage. Even the Sheriff can’t resist peeking through the half-shut door. The snaky queue of vehicles proceeds slowly toward the accreditation desk, and our turn comes after four long hours.
Everybody is given identification bracelets – red for the riders and blue for the support staff. With a nod, they point the way to the paddock. A far away dot, which looks like it’s emerging from the mirage. We discover that, in order to reach our paddock, we need to cross a salty lake covered by 30cm of water. “Welcome to Bonneville,” a stranger wearing a Panama hat shouts to us. He’s here with a car and a truck, ready to help newcomers like us. While waiting for the formalities, I roam around and look at the vans – there are more than 200 competitors, the majority of them are over 40 years of age. You can count the youngsters on one hand. There are an impressive number of women.
The ‘Ok’ comes via radio, the green flag is ready, and the adventure is about to begin. Our two riders – Jamie and Cristian – are going to alternate for five days, darting up and down along these epic 5 miles (8 kilometres). Jamie has raced on 250cc bikes together with former MotoGP rider Max Biaggi, and therefore he’s accustomed to high speeds. Our man, on the contrary, has gone through several experiences while riding a bike and is raring to go. The two look at each other as a form of mutual encouragement. They’ve met only a few hours ago, but they look like brothers. There is only one thing that helps strangers get closer, and that is fear. And here, the fear is almost tangible. Phil hugs his son as if he was leaving for a suicide mission, while we tightly hug Cristian. I swear that, for the first time, I don’t feel like putting the bikers’ race suit on.
Five days pass by in this way. The initial worries give way to satisfied smiles later. We don’t bring home the world record – a speed of 181 miles per hour (291km/h) set by our Panigale is not enough to do so. But ‘good job’ is something that I exclaim when the boys put back their helmets, the race suits go into their bags, and we shut the doors of our van for the last time. But who knows if this is a goodbye or a ‘See you again next year.’
The mountains at the horizon are so far away that they look like a mirage. The Bonneville Salt Flats are really immense, more than 120 kilometres long and with a width that varies between 48 and 108 kilometres
What You Cannot Expect
Eh, Gioi, who knows if we’ll be able to come back? And now I’ll let my chief technician Lucio speak – he’s the one who sets up bikes even for world champions. This time, his job was to make the Panigale run on a salty stretch like the wind. A task such as this looks easy to achieve, if the objective is mere maximum speed – especially if you’re part of the category of stock bikes like us, where the only alteration allowed is in the final drive ratio. Well, it’s an easy job for Lucio only in theory. This is what he has to say:
‘It’s going to be a great holiday,’ I think before departing. I’ve heard about Bonneville Speed Week, and when I discover I’m going to be there as key player, a shiver runs down my spine. Rather than just being a rider to follow, Cristian is also a great friend. Hence the responsibility is double. But it’ll be difficult to please him, since he’s the only one here who can make the difference.
In my suitcase, I store front and rear sprockets of each and every size – along with a few spare chains in case of any hitches. Tyres, on the other hand, will be there on arrival. Pirelli MT60 for the rear, combined with a sport Supercorsa for the front. Strange choice, but the engineers convince us that this is the best option to have grip and to dig grooves on the salty track.
I push the Panigale under the envious gazes of everybody till the area for technical tests. Strange vehicles surround me – bikes that resemble missiles, three wheelers, two and four stroke engines, turbochargers, NOS cylinders… Some of these creatures look as shiny as if they were manufactured only yesterday. Some others, on the other hand, show (with pride) signs of their previous competitions – the salt of the lake covers every bolt. Oh, my poor ‘dear’ Panigale!
Phil has already arranged everything for the inspection – bindings by iron wire, while mirrors, the kickstand, indicators and the license plate holders have already been removed. The scrutiny by AMA and FIM technicians is very rigorous, simply because lives are at stake. The high speeds, and a surface with limited grip don’t leave much room for a compromise on safety. They stamp everything, even the fuel tank cap, since it has to be filled only with their special fuel.
Everything seems to be fine, but they don’t issue us the endorsement for the cut-off string to switch off the engine (in case of a fall) and the fire protection for the power supply system. These are very small things, if you have the right replacement parts. Unfortunately, as newcomers, we had everything apart from the required stuff. But, eventually, we manage to tide over the crisis.
The following morning, at dawn, we come back for a few minutes to the circuit for the last inspection and I take part in the rider’s briefing to get used to the way Americans speak. Their slang has nothing to do with the English studied at school, and with the technical terminology one learnt at work. Even though I have difficulty distinguishing words, as soon as the organizer starts talking, his speech amuses me. I look at the crowd around me, and realize that I’m in a different world. I’m so excited, it’s as if this were the first race I ever took part in.
Cristian lowers the dark visor, but I manage to catch his eye. His look tells me he’s aware of the means to achieve the end but is also scared to take part as a first-timer in an event that is inherently dangerous. I would have loved to tell him a few words of comfort, but not even a single sound comes out of my mouth.
When the flag is lowered, I remove my hand from his shoulders. From then onward I sharpened both my eyes and ears. I hear each and every one of the six gears of the Desmo engine, while I see our Ducati become a small and then an indistinct dot deformed at the horizon by a mirage. The whole phase lasts for a couple of minutes, but they are definitely the longest of my life.
Our week proceeds with much research, attempting to set the best gear ratios. It’s not at all easy to find the ideal tuning – so much so that it’s only on the penultimate day that we reach our best top speed of 181 miles per hour (291km/h). We started with a final ratio of 15/41, and we eventually ended up with a long 16/35 to avoid immediately hitting the rev limiter.
To overcome the traction issues though, we had to lower our bike by 6cms on the back and 2cms on the front – but still found no improvement at all. The extra spin on the back wheel is around 20%, which means if you proceed at a speed of 300km/h, the rear wheel turns as if it’s going at 360km/h!
I disassemble my bike on a daily basis. The salt is everywhere, not only in the bike fairing but also inside the engine. The Panigale cannot breath, and it keeps losing power, day by day… What the hell! We would have probably broken the record if we had other gear ratios. I go back home tired, carrying along a story which I’ll keep telling the rest of my life – especially the episode when Cristian told me that the front wheel went into a drain at 250km/h… Who knows what was in his mind?
They are Crazy…
What do you expect me to have thought? I would love to tell you, “In doubt, flat out!” That is exactly what I did by instinct, or I wouldn’t be here to write it down. And I mouthed a series of profanities worth one of the best action movies I grew up with.
After an unforgettable week, we said goodbye to Phil and Jamie in their home-grown way – by gulping down five beers and five whiskies. Before losing my senses, I understood one thing, in the States, everything has to be beyond measure – from the jumbo steaks to the endless spaces. And they seem to have a penchant for making up the most absurd stories, the most epic challenges, and the craziest competitions in the world. These Americans are crazy!
A Ducati Panigale and a group of friends. It all started like that, sipping a beer, almost a year ago. And it ended up in Utah at a speed of 291km/h on this salty surface. No experience and zero expectation, until somebody hammers it into your head that the world record is quite close and that you could break it. And you start believing it for real – it doesn’t matter if you have to arrange gear ratios from the other side of the globe, or if you need to use special fuel, which makes the tank melt. That special moment did arrive for us. We didn’t break the world record. But it doesn’t matter.
With us, Jamie Robinson, former teammate of Max Biaggi when he was an Aprilia 250cc rider in MotoGP. This is the third year at Bonneville for him. His dad, Phil, who flew in from England, promised him a handmade motorcycle if he got into the history books as one of the world’s fastest riders. Because, if you end up in one of these pages, you become part of a history which is never going to fade! You become invincible, as the gods and goddess of Olympus. This is one of the reasons you come to Bonneville. But first, you must conquer the fear to ride on this surface.
Being in the saddle for some is like lying down on a surfboard. In this particular case, you have to be careful not to lean in the wrong manner, or you risk burning yourself. What you see here leaves very little to the imagination. You look around and realise that somebody has had similar thoughts – two Ducati engines on a single frame. Isn’t that too much? Maybe not, if you intend to touch 200 miles per hour (320km/h).
Some people focus on aerodynamics to cross the limit. Some others invest in engine performance. There are no rules, but inspections are very strict. Supercharged turbo engines or NOS systems are quite a common thing. And so is the view of bike frames measuring more than 3 metres in length. Safety may be of paramount importance, but nobody follows the basic rules of kinematics.
It’s been more than 100 years since the first group of crazy boys in swimsuits and leather caps met here to set a speed record. That was also a feat of bravery. It was only later that somebody thought that a race suit and helmet were a necessity.
The salt flats attract not only riders, but different kinds of people from all over the world. There are characters who come here only to soak in the atmosphere. They roam around the paddocks giving unsolicited advice.
Bonneville is a competition for those who are not bothered about their age. It’s never too late to take part in THE challenge of your life. For many participants, time stands still once their bike touches the salty surface. And this is much more than a legend retold by gap-toothed old men. The white bearded man lying in a yellow bike fairing is 81 years old. But the Purple Heart goes to Tom (above), blind from birth, who rides his trike at 200km/h through the help of a radio transmitter to stay on track. He’s a real modern hero – much more so than Capitan America!
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