English professor and motorcycle enthusiast Ted Bishop is taking one last ride before fall term when his bike vibrates out of control and he is flung into a ditch, breaking his back and collapsing his lungs. With limited mobility, Ted finally has time to savour the reading experience. He begins writing about his crash, realizing that two worlds had come together when his head hit the pavement. The more he thinks about it, the more it seems that archival work is the inverse, not the opposite, of motorcycling. Ultimately, what surrounds both reader and rider is silence.

In Riding with Rilke, Ted Bishop takes us on the road through some of the richest landscapes in North America and Europe, with numerous stops along the way. Whether describing the archival jolt of holding Virginia Woolf's suicide note in the British Library or the outlaw thrill of cruising Main Street in small-town America on a bike nicknamed “Il Mostro,” Bishop tells a story filled with insight and humour.

ONE

Why a Duc?

It wasn't a mid-life crisis: it was mid-life money. I had inherited some cash and was desperately afraid I would do something sensible with it, like put it on my mortgage or into mutual funds. So I bought a Ducati Monster. I had the fall term off and planned to go to the Harry Ransom Center in Austin, Texas, the improbable location of the best archive in the world of British modernist writers such as James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, George Bernard Shaw, and T.E. Lawrence. Then I got a travel grant from the Ransom Center. They didn't say how I had to travel. September would be perfect for a ride.

My friends looked at the short wheelbase and hard, sloping seat of the Monster, and said, “You're taking that to Texas?” Why not? I would take it one short stretch at a time. If you thought about the whole project, you'd never start. I bundled up my research notes, bubble-wrapped my laptop, and phoned UPS. I'd be travelling light. I looked forward to escaping my academic persona, trading tweed for leather, transforming myself into a lone rider heading down the highway.

The rider headed out at dawn. A fine mist was rising from the empty highway. That's how it was supposed to be. The truth is I finally got out of Edmonton and onto the crowded freeway at noon after fiddling endlessly with my borrowed saddlebags. There was just enough room for them to fit between the tail lights and the heel of my boot, and just enough space between the tip of the exhaust pipe and the plastic plate on the bottom of the bags to keep them from melting. This first day was to be a shakedown day anyway.

“Just ride as long as it's still fun,” Pasquale had said as he showed me how to fit the saddlebags. He was a man of many rides and many bikes (he kept a Ducati, a Moto Guzzi, a Laverda, and a BMW in his garage, and stored another old BMW in Italy). As he made me an espresso he said again, “Ride as long as it's fun. Don't try to make that extra 100 kilometres at the end of the day like you would in a car.” Good advice, and I needed it. My friends in the BMW club felt the day was ruined if they had not done 500 kilometres before breakfast. I was grateful for this permission to do it my way. I had spread my big Alberta Motor Association map of the western states and provinces on the floor the night before and felt slightly ill. Big as it was it still didn't reach past New Mexico and I had to unfold half the Texas map to find Austin. This was the last time I would allow myself to look at the trip as a whole until it was finished. I'd made the 350-kilometre trips to Banff or Jasper several times. I had a sabbatical and no schedule. I would just make a series of 350-kilometre rides until I wound up in Texas.

I rode to Calgary and hung around Sport Cycle while Brian, the owner, adjusted my carburetor jets for the high passes I would meet in Colorado and New Mexico. I've always suspected that shop owners make you wait longer than necessary just so you'll look at the gear for sale. I picked up a stylish Italian helmet, guaranteed the quietest on the market, also lighter because it had carbon fibre in it. I put it on. It fit my loaf-of-bread-shaped head better than my old one. That would make a big difference over a long journey. Comfort equals safety. A happy rider is an alert rider. Also it was dazzling: yellow with flash graphics. That bright yellow would increase my visibility to other motorists. As a responsible rider I felt I had to have it.

Then I looked at a carbon-fibre windscreen. I had seen one like it in England. Kind of ugly–short and stubby, like the end of a coal shovel. Kind of cool too, though; it fit the character of the bike. And the guy in London had said it made a big difference to turbulence on the highway, and gave some protection from the rain. This would be important on a long ride. I had to have it. And in the rain I would need overboots. I was using black leather gaucho boots I had bought in Spain more because of a Bob Dylan song than because they were good for motorcycling. (In fact they came with slick leather soles and the first time I wore them I nearly dumped the bike at a stoplight.) I had siliconed them and put rubber soles on them, but clearly I needed these rubber overboots that came in their own drawstring bag and fit right in the top pocket of your panniers. I had to have them.

I knew what was happening but I couldn't stop myself. Brian was the master of the soft sell. That was evident on the day I bought the Ducati in the first place.

The new ducati monster had finally reached the showroom in October. A card on the tank said:

zippers scratch.

please do not sit on the motorcycles unless you are naked.

I stood and looked at it. “It's okay,” said a voice behind me. Brian. “Go ahead.”

“Oh, thanks. Thanks.” I got on reverently, making sure my belt buckle didn't touch the tank. It fit exactly. I got off.

“What about this Moto Guzzi over here, how much is it going for?” I asked. There were no deals. Brian didn't do deals. He had a used Guzzi out back though. We went and looked. It was big and ugly, and like many Guzzis, because they are so reliable, completely neglected. Beside it was another Ducati Monster, a new one with a dented tank.

“What happened?”

“The owner dropped it turning into his garage. He decided it wasn't for him so we bought it back from him.”

“Oh. Does it run?”

“Sure. It runs fine. We just have to redo the tank, the peg, and there where it's scraped on the muffler.”

“So, could you start it up? I'd like to hear what it sounds like.”

“Sure.”

It started with a touch. Brian revved it a couple of times and then let go of the throttle. It idled perfectly. That rasp I remembered from my brother's old Ducati 250. We stood listening to the bike idle for a while.

“It's okay,” I said. “You can turn it off now.” He switched it off. “Sounds pretty good,” I said. “Thanks.”

“They sound even better with after-market pipes,” he said. “Come and hear Patti's.” We walked through the store to the curb out front and he started up his wife's bike. Same rasp, only louder, deeper. Yes, this was what I remembered. My brother had had a less-than-legal megaphone on his bike.

“That's nice,” I said. “Pretty loud.”

“Yes,” he said, “but still legal. You should hear the racing exhaust on my bike.”

“Could I?”

“Sure,” he said, “it's in the back.” We went back into the shop. Brian's red 851 was next to the Monster. He turned it on and waited; we listened to the high-pitched whine of the fuel-injection system priming itself. Then he pushed the starter. The roar filled the shop and when he twisted the throttle the roar rose to a banshee wail. He grinned at me; I grinned nervously back. I felt like I was standing on the launchpad at Cape Canaveral. He shut off the bike. My heart was thudding.

“Thanks. Wow.”

“Yeah. Same basic engine as the Monster though,” he said. “Same sound when you free it up. Of course these carbon-fibre pipes are expensive. Not the sort of thing most people put on right away.”

We had turned and found ourselves facing the Monster again. From the undinged side it looked perfect. The sun warmed the bronze-coloured frame, made the gold inserts in the front brake discs sparkle, and picked up the fine lines in the gold sleeves on the inverted front forks. The tank was a deep black, not flat and shiny, a finish you could see down into, and on top, behind the inset gold gas cap, was a line of fine gold script that said, “Made in Italy.”

“So, I don't suppose you'd let me ride it,” I said, “just up and down the alley?”

“Sure,” said Brian. “I'll get the key.”

That was easy.

I started it up. Clutch clatter, exhaust, and a half a dozen other little mechanical sounds. The grips were thin and hard, the brake light and positive, like the brake on my mountain bike. I backed cautiously down the driveway. I'd read about Monsters, about how you could do wheelies without even thinking about it, about how the steering was so quick you could find yourself heeled over in an instant.

I rocked back and forth a couple of times, finding the catch point of the clutch. Easy. I gave it some throttle and started off. Effortless. The pegs were far back, but I found them and settled on the bike. Even more comfortable than in the showroom. I turned at the end of the alley and came back, getting only as high as second gear. Everything just worked. I turned again. I pulled up and turned it off. It felt like … mine.

“It's okay,” I said, not meeting Brian's eyes because my heart was leaping around in my rib cage like a salmon on a spawning ladder. “So, uh, what's it going for? Since it's used and all.”

“Oh, it's not for sale.”

What??

“Not till the spring anyway,” he went on. “We're going to rejet the carbs and put different pipes on it. Use it to show off some of our accessories in the March show.”

NoooIneeditnowIneeditnow.

“I see.”

“The one in the showroom is still for sale. Though there's one guy who's pretty serious about it. He said he was going to come down when he gets off work at five today.”

Oh yeah, the old “interested party” routine. I know this. I'm not going to bite.

“Well that's okay. I'm not really in the market anyway.”

The “I'm not really in the market” gambit.

“Sure. There's not much riding season left anyway.” Refusing to be drawn.

“So do you discount your bikes now that it's October?” A casual probe.

“No. The dollar has dropped against the lira and the next shipment will be 15 percent higher. That Monster in the showroom is the last one I could get at last season's price.”

Oh sure: the “last season's price” manoeuvre.

“Well, there's a Honda VFR about the same price up in Edmonton, and they've dropped it a thousand.” The classic “it's cheaper down the block” riposte.

“Hondas are good bikes,” he said evenly.

Damn. The underhanded “if you're content to ride with the rabble” cut.

“They've got an excellent warranty,” I countered weakly.

“Excellent,” he parried, giving nothing.

“Tuning's much easier than on a Ducati,” I said. A wobbly thrust, and we both knew it.

“Though when tuned by someone who knows,” he said carefully, “the Desmodromic heads are just as reliable.”

DESMODROMIC!

A palpable hit–Desmodromic, the valve control system unique to Ducati; the pride of Italy; the envy of motorcycle cognoscenti everywhere. (They even make T-shirts with Desmodromic valves on them.) Who wants a motorcycle made by people who make lawn mowers?

“I've seen Desmos run for thousands of clicks …” he was saying.

Desmo, Desmo, the very word was like a charm. My heart ached and a drowsy numbness pained my sense; I could feel my fingers reaching for my chequebook.

“Yes, well. Gotta go,” I mumbled.

My friend Dave had been standing by silently through all of this. I flopped into the passenger side of the car. “Drive,” I said. “Get me out of here.”

I babbled all the way to the city limits; then I calmed down a little. “So, like, how was I back there? Do you think he could tell I was interested?”

“I think he could tell,” said Dave, who is no help in these matters.

“Whadjathinkofthebike?” I said calmly.

“Great bike. Looked good.”

“Shit. Okay. Look. If we drive fast we'll be home at ten to six. I'll phone and make him a cash offer. He'll have to come down. Right? He doesn't want to have that thing sitting in his showroom all winter, does he?”

“No … Of course he mentioned that other buyer …”

“Oh Jesus yes!”

“… though it's probably just a line.”

“But what if it's not? WHAT IF IT'S NOT?? Maybe I should phone from a gas station at Red Deer …”

“Don't worry. It's Saturday. The guy couldn't close the deal anyway–the banks aren't open.”

“That's true that's true okay fine. Fine. I'll phone when I get home.”

I got home; I phoned.

“Hello, uh, could I speak to, uh, Brian, please.”

“Hi, Ted.”

He was waiting

So I got the Monster for full retail.

But that's okay. I would have paid more.

“Your bike's done,” Brian called from the back. He came out and looked at the pile of stuff on the counter. “Want me to put on that windscreen while Patti writes up the helmet?”