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A little carbon fiber and a coat of red paint, my hyper-fast race bike for the street, has designs on my soul. Hey, you! Get outta the way!!!


For those of you window shoppers who enjoy the wide-open freedom of a motorcycle, the wind in your face, the carefree, horizon-chasing moment, then by all means avoid the 2005 MV F41000!!!! Mine is misery on two wheels. A wickedly disposed and temperamental exercise of sheer mechanical narcissism upon which you assume a posture like it's flashlight inspection day in prison. Its last dyno at 172-hp runs on damned souls and is lubricated with the fat of unbaptized children. All my bike wants to do, all it dreams about at night, is catapulting me over the handlebars or pitching me backward onto the streaming concrete so I make one of those slo-mo, Evel-Knievel-at-Ceasars-Palace death rolls in my fancy Italian riding leathers. So, I always plan my day accordingly: After riding this bike, I need some time to unwind. I enjoy going for a Polynesian fire walk, perhaps. Play some "Deer Hunter" roulette. Or, occassionally, have a vasectomy. Mona is one of a mutant species of vehicles built to meet the production-based rules of a racing series, a process called homologation. The American Superbike Championship requires that competing bikes must be largely based on series-production motorcycles. In order to make mine more competitive, plenty of mods have been undertaken! In fact, Mona is pitifully disguised with just enough street-legal spit to pass DMV inspection. The badge on the carbon-fiber fender is that of the factory racing operation, MV Corse. Made of steel, titanium, carbon fiber and sadism, my girl is as close as you are going to get to a grand prix motorcycle, and since I am not a fantastic rider with years of experience, you don't want to get that close. She regularly, at least when Fay Myers hasn’t screwed her up, beats me down like I said something bad about her mother. Look for my name in the annals of motorcycle glory. You won't find it. I am a competent but by no means expert rider. I accept this. Call me a wimp, a weenie, a Sissy la-la, if you are inclined to excessive alliteration. But Mona scares the pudding out of me. So, there I was on P2P, puttering along in first gear with about 1,500 rpm showing on the tach, hunched over the handlebars. My sunglasses slipped down my nose. When I took my right hand off the accelerator, there was the briefest moment of adhesion between my palm and the gummy rubber grip — just enough to goose the throttle slightly. The bike jumped like it had been poked with a cattle prod. Baaaa-WHAAAYH! The force of the acceleration whip-lashed my helmeted head, wrenching my neck. This was the first sunglasses-adjustment injury I have sustained. One sunny Sunday morning, I got up early, determined to take the bike for a proper stretch of the legs. Velcro'ed and zippered into my motorcycle fetish leather, I pointed Mona down I-25 South and wrung the throttle, working up through the gears yet shifting well short of her howling 12,500-rpm redline. In the 20 seconds or so that it took me to reach fifth gear, the speedometer read … well, I'm not going to tell you what the speedo read , just in the event the LEO’s are on the Board. The point is, she was just waking up, just beginning to shake her strange, low-speed awkwardness. The super-stiff springs and shocks, which burr and tremble on the patched concrete around town, went all velvety; the aero cowling, useless at 60 mph, threw the jet stream over my Shark helmeted-head, creating a small pocket of tranquillity inside the headlong tornado; the engine — all Spit and hunt at low rpm — began resonating like a cathedral pipe-organ keyed with a Hallelujah chord. My license could last about a week with this bike, maybe less, if I continue to ride her regularly. Thank goodness for the service dept’s of our local Denver MV dealership for ensuring that she is down quite frequently!!!! So she is fast — top speed is about 180 mph (you didn't hear that from me). But she is also quick. The fundamental ratio of performance machines is power to weight, usually expressed as pounds per horsepower. A Ferrari F430 with driver in place weighs about 3,300 pounds – ask your local Tricolore riding catholic priest - a burden shared by its 490 horsepower, which the abacus tells us is about 6.7 pounds per horsepower. Mona, on the other hand, (dry weight of 400 and change pounds) weighs about 600 pounds with me on board, which means each of its 172 horsepower must move only 4 pounds. It's hard for those who have not saddled a superbike to appreciate the sick, perverted violence of this equation. If you rev the engine to about 8,000 rpm, shift as much of your weight as possible over the front wheel, and gingerly slip the clutch for a couple hundred feet — and if you can hang onto it — Mona will accelerate from 0-60 mph in about 3 seconds. Your wits might take a bit longer to catch up. But woe betide the rookie who fails to execute the full-power launch precisely right: this wench will be delighted … delighted, thank you … to wheelie over onto her, and your, back. Even in second and third gear, her massive horsepower (at 10,000 rpm) will easily pull over your head in an asphalt full gainer. Oh, and what's that smell? Why it's my roasting thighs. Her heart (that is, if she had a heart) is the 999-cc displacement, liquid-cooled, inline four cylinder engine. This has to be the most highly stressed engine in any street vehicle, producing 172 hp out of less than one liter displacement. The technology that goes into this bespoke, sand-cast engine is the stuff of race engineering, but its essential feature — beside the ludicrous power — is the unbelievably low reciprocating mass. This courtesy of alloy pistons, featherweight billet crank and exotic and titanium-intensive radial valve train. What does all this mean? The internal moving parts of the engine are extremely light, so they can accelerate and decelerate very quickly. Gas the motor and the rpm shoot skyward. Heigh ho, Red and Silver! (or its equivalent in Italian). Let off the gas and the rpm and power plummet — which can be quite exciting if, for example, you miss a shift under hard acceleration. It would be very easy to be unhorsed this way. As hard as she bike speeds up, she slows down even harder. The MV engine braking and 15/42 gearing are incredible. But, again, the slightest misapplication of pressure on the right-hand brake lever — say, two fingers instead of one — and Mona will stop dead in her tracks, leaving you to sail over the carbon-fiber fairing like Buzz Lightyear. Mona is a very naughty motorcycle… However, I have learned a few tricks on the serpentines of Deckers Highway that made my time with the bike easier. First, get all the braking done in a straight line; none of that fancy trail-braking into the corner that you see on televised Superbike races — you ain't Valentino Rossi and I'm certainly not. Second, get off the saddle early and set up for the corner. Mona is far too reactive, far too edgy, to permit sliding off the saddle once you enter the corner. Third, hold onto this biatch with your legs; avoid putting any weight on the grips. The slightest tug can cause this she devil to surge out of control. Fourth, stay in a higher gear than you might on a less powerful bike. I like to crank the bike over on the tire sidewalls and roll on the throttle and let the ludicrous amounts of horsepower pull through the corner. Have no fear. The Michelin 2CT racing tires have stupendous grip on dry pavement. Fifth, use the force, Luke. As difficult as it may be, you’ll have to trust this girl. The harder you ride her, the more stable and secure she feels. I practically stand the thing on its nose under braking and the tail doesn't wiggle an inch. I flop her over from rail to rail as hard as I know how and the front end doesn't even tremble. Pound for ornery pound, this has got to be the most dynamically perfect motorcycle in the world. Yes, once you master the brakes, the splenetic throttle, the aching-back riding position and her overall rabid dog demeanor, riding Mona can still be a traumatic life event. I mean, come on, she's a racing bike! Don’t let the suede seat fool you!!! Mona is to normal street bikes what crystal meth is to your morning coffee. I am never so relieved to park any vehicle unscathed in my garage. And yet, I confess, I am a little sad to, again, see her in pieces!!!!.
 

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i just wanted to make the font a bit bigger and.... hopefully.... easier to read
great story







A little carbon fiber and a coat of red paint, my hyper-fast race bike for the street, has designs on my soul. Hey, you! Get outta the way!!!


For those of you window shoppers who enjoy the wide-open freedom of a motorcycle, the wind in your face, the carefree, horizon-chasing moment, then by all means avoid the 2005 MV F41000!!!! Mine is misery on two wheels. A wickedly disposed and temperamental exercise of sheer mechanical narcissism upon which you assume a posture like it's flashlight inspection day in prison. Its last dyno at 172-hp runs on damned souls and is lubricated with the fat of unbaptized children. All my bike wants to do, all it dreams about at night, is catapulting me over the handlebars or pitching me backward onto the streaming concrete so I make one of those slo-mo, Evel-Knievel-at-Ceasars-Palace death rolls in my fancy Italian riding leathers. So, I always plan my day accordingly: After riding this bike, I need some time to unwind. I enjoy going for a Polynesian fire walk, perhaps. Play some "Deer Hunter" roulette. Or, occassionally, have a vasectomy. Mona is one of a mutant species of vehicles built to meet the production-based rules of a racing series, a process called homologation. The American Superbike Championship requires that competing bikes must be largely based on series-production motorcycles. In order to make mine more competitive, plenty of mods have been undertaken! In fact, Mona is pitifully disguised with just enough street-legal spit to pass DMV inspection. The badge on the carbon-fiber fender is that of the factory racing operation, MV Corse. Made of steel, titanium, carbon fiber and sadism, my girl is as close as you are going to get to a grand prix motorcycle, and since I am not a fantastic rider with years of experience, you don't want to get that close. She regularly, at least when Fay Myers hasn’t screwed her up, beats me down like I said something bad about her mother. Look for my name in the annals of motorcycle glory. You won't find it. I am a competent but by no means expert rider. I accept this. Call me a wimp, a weenie, a Sissy la-la, if you are inclined to excessive alliteration. But Mona scares the pudding out of me. So, there I was on P2P, puttering along in first gear with about 1,500 rpm showing on the tach, hunched over the handlebars. My sunglasses slipped down my nose. When I took my right hand off the accelerator, there was the briefest moment of adhesion between my palm and the gummy rubber grip — just enough to goose the throttle slightly. The bike jumped like it had been poked with a cattle prod. Baaaa-WHAAAYH! The force of the acceleration whip-lashed my helmeted head, wrenching my neck. This was the first sunglasses-adjustment injury I have sustained. One sunny Sunday morning, I got up early, determined to take the bike for a proper stretch of the legs. Velcro'ed and zippered into my motorcycle fetish leather, I pointed Mona down I-25 South and wrung the throttle, working up through the gears yet shifting well short of her howling 12,500-rpm redline. In the 20 seconds or so that it took me to reach fifth gear, the speedometer read … well, I'm not going to tell you what the speedo read , just in the event the LEO’s are on the Board. The point is, she was just waking up, just beginning to shake her strange, low-speed awkwardness. The super-stiff springs and shocks, which burr and tremble on the patched concrete around town, went all velvety; the aero cowling, useless at 60 mph, threw the jet stream over my Shark helmeted-head, creating a small pocket of tranquillity inside the headlong tornado; the engine — all Spit and hunt at low rpm — began resonating like a cathedral pipe-organ keyed with a Hallelujah chord. My license could last about a week with this bike, maybe less, if I continue to ride her regularly. Thank goodness for the service dept’s of our local Denver MV dealership for ensuring that she is down quite frequently!!!! So she is fast — top speed is about 180 mph (you didn't hear that from me). But she is also quick. The fundamental ratio of performance machines is power to weight, usually expressed as pounds per horsepower. A Ferrari F430 with driver in place weighs about 3,300 pounds – ask your local Tricolore riding catholic priest - a burden shared by its 490 horsepower, which the abacus tells us is about 6.7 pounds per horsepower. Mona, on the other hand, (dry weight of 400 and change pounds) weighs about 600 pounds with me on board, which means each of its 172 horsepower must move only 4 pounds. It's hard for those who have not saddled a superbike to appreciate the sick, perverted violence of this equation. If you rev the engine to about 8,000 rpm, shift as much of your weight as possible over the front wheel, and gingerly slip the clutch for a couple hundred feet — and if you can hang onto it — Mona will accelerate from 0-60 mph in about 3 seconds. Your wits might take a bit longer to catch up. But woe betide the rookie who fails to execute the full-power launch precisely right: this wench will be delighted … delighted, thank you … to wheelie over onto her, and your, back. Even in second and third gear, her massive horsepower (at 10,000 rpm) will easily pull over your head in an asphalt full gainer. Oh, and what's that smell? Why it's my roasting thighs. Her heart (that is, if she had a heart) is the 999-cc displacement, liquid-cooled, inline four cylinder engine. This has to be the most highly stressed engine in any street vehicle, producing 172 hp out of less than one liter displacement. The technology that goes into this bespoke, sand-cast engine is the stuff of race engineering, but its essential feature — beside the ludicrous power — is the unbelievably low reciprocating mass. This courtesy of alloy pistons, featherweight billet crank and exotic and titanium-intensive radial valve train. What does all this mean? The internal moving parts of the engine are extremely light, so they can accelerate and decelerate very quickly. Gas the motor and the rpm shoot skyward. Heigh ho, Red and Silver! (or its equivalent in Italian). Let off the gas and the rpm and power plummet — which can be quite exciting if, for example, you miss a shift under hard acceleration. It would be very easy to be unhorsed this way. As hard as she bike speeds up, she slows down even harder. The MV engine braking and 15/42 gearing are incredible. But, again, the slightest misapplication of pressure on the right-hand brake lever — say, two fingers instead of one — and Mona will stop dead in her tracks, leaving you to sail over the carbon-fiber fairing like Buzz Lightyear. Mona is a very naughty motorcycle… However, I have learned a few tricks on the serpentines of Deckers Highway that made my time with the bike easier. First, get all the braking done in a straight line; none of that fancy trail-braking into the corner that you see on televised Superbike races — you ain't Valentino Rossi and I'm certainly not. Second, get off the saddle early and set up for the corner. Mona is far too reactive, far too edgy, to permit sliding off the saddle once you enter the corner. Third, hold onto this biatch with your legs; avoid putting any weight on the grips. The slightest tug can cause this she devil to surge out of control. Fourth, stay in a higher gear than you might on a less powerful bike. I like to crank the bike over on the tire sidewalls and roll on the throttle and let the ludicrous amounts of horsepower pull through the corner. Have no fear. The Michelin 2CT racing tires have stupendous grip on dry pavement. Fifth, use the force, Luke. As difficult as it may be, you’ll have to trust this girl. The harder you ride her, the more stable and secure she feels. I practically stand the thing on its nose under braking and the tail doesn't wiggle an inch. I flop her over from rail to rail as hard as I know how and the front end doesn't even tremble. Pound for ornery pound, this has got to be the most dynamically perfect motorcycle in the world. Yes, once you master the brakes, the splenetic throttle, the aching-back riding position and her overall rabid dog demeanor, riding Mona can still be a traumatic life event. I mean, come on, she's a racing bike! Don’t let the suede seat fool you!!! Mona is to normal street bikes what crystal meth is to your morning coffee. I am never so relieved to park any vehicle unscathed in my garage. And yet, I confess, I am a little sad to, again, see her in pieces!!!!.




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It won't be too long before Greg hits 10,000 posts if he keeps 'borrowing' other people's. :laughing: :laughing: :laughing: :laughing:
 

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Dont be sorry man. Your country gave us the Agusta, the Ducati, the Lamborghini, the Maserati, the Alfa Romeo, the Ferrari, Michaelangelo, Lenoardo da Vinci, Claudio Castaglioni, Enzo Ferrari and Mussolini :p
 
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