an article I wrote for ATG back in 2001.
The dart has changed somewhat since then but it’s the bike that started it all for me and it’s still proudly with me.
Firstly a huge thank you to everyone who gave me some suggestions as to how to rectify my Dart's erratic behaviour a few weeks ago. The solution came in the form of a hideous, restricting plastikky piece of junk from the airbox that was missing (it had rolled under Dads '49 Meteor when we changed the aircleaner), thereby causing the bike to breathe freely for the first time in it's life! Of course, the emissions regulations which affect the Dart call for all this strangulation (and of course re-jetting) but given the bikes scrooge-like fuel consumption on a recent trip, I don't know why it needs it…
It's summer 2001. The sun is shining and I'm happy. Happy because in a week's time I will embark on a journey of discovery, fun and, of course German Weissbier! The plan was to ride from home in London on the Dart, with Dad on his '49 Vincent Rapide, and his mate Andy on a '51 version, through France, Germany, Austria and finally into Morini land, for a few days blasting around the Italian Dolomites.
I've never driven on the wrong side of the road(well not intentionally anyway!) and the longest journey I'd ever done on a bike up till that point was London to Brighton on the Dart a couple of weeks earlier. On top of which, I've only had my full bike license for a couple of months and the Dart has been on the road for only a few weeks. This is a big test for both machine and 18 year old me.
We left home for what was supposed to be a fairly un-eventful journey through France with an overnight stop in Reims. Once in Calais and out of reach of those speed camera-wielding maniacs they call the police, I felt it was time to play my part in the "genuine 100mph Morini" debate. A nice open stretch of motorway… I looked down at the speedo. Crikey, Morinis don't go that fast do they?? Speedo can't be working properly. 175? Naah. Sure enough though, quick stop for petrol and…
"Bloody hell Tom, we were going a bit quick there weren't we?"
"Er, no dad, I don't think so. Maybe 80mph…"
"Well the speedo on my Vincent was reading 110."
Damn, rumbled. "Okay Dad, we'll take it a little slower now". For the sake of the Vincent, obviously!
We reached Reims at 8pm, but there was no accommodation to be had after a 2-hour search. It never used to be like this in France - be warned! So it was fill up with fuel and press on. At 12:00 we slipped into a service station to fill up with Coffee and to see if we could find a half-comfy chair for a nap. The chairs were uncomfortable, and our attention became fixed on the far-fetched film playing on French TV. Despite having about a 5-word vocabulary in the language, we got the gist fairly well. To our horror, we discovered that satellite News channels don't show films. It was September 11th.
Back on the road,somewhat subdued, and in desperate need of a bed for the night. Ah ye of little faith - a "Formula 1" room was procured at 2:45 am for 140FF (£13) and we all piled in for a most comfortable sleep.
On Wednesday morning, we headed off for another stretch of motorway. The next two days would be pretty repetitive; Motorway, petrol station, sleep etc, but riding past Lake Constance was good, and made a nice change to the fairly boring motorway sections.
Friday should have been an omen. The glorious sunshine had been replaced with dull skies and damp roads. Waterproofs on, we finally set off from the luxurious Hotel Maximillian in Reutte, Austria at about lunchtime. Maybe the weather would clear once we reached Italy. Or maybe not. As we neared the border, the rain came down heavier and heavier. Our (not so) waterproofs were clearly no match for the heavens and so after paying several thousand Lira for a squirt of fuel, we stopped in the worlds smallest motorway service station café to dry ourselves. Off with the gloves, boots socks. Ring out the water and leave to drip-dry. By the time we left it was the world's first motorway service station swimming pool!
Back to the bikes. By this time we had been joined by Michael Jackson on a 1970 Honda 750 four. Interestingly this bike struggled against the Vincents let alone my Dart. Maybe the Honda was jealous of just how competently the Dart was performing on only two cylinders, but anyway for some reason when we left the service station, his bike was now a 375 two. Off we went. Cautiously. The Brenner Pass is an elevated stretch of motorway and is exposed to some quite strong winds. Add to this the numerous 90 degree bends, persistent rain and crazy lorry drivers, intent on travelling far too fast for the conditions and what you get is a recipe for disaster. It nearly ended that way too. Coming out of a long tunnel and the road suddenly turned left. Andy, a walking mountain of a man hit a slippery bit in the road and had a job wrestling his sideways Vin round the corner. The rest of us got round it. Just.
Our refuge in the Dolomites was located 2,250m up (Ref. Carlo Valentini - Passo di Sella), in the middle of a network of small twisties with hairpin bends and dodgy cambers. Fantastic Morini-ing roads, I know, but I was not looking forward to them. It wasn't the corners I was worried about, nor was it the pathetic 2 foot wall which "prevents" you from plummeting several hundred metres off the side of a mountain. It was the fact that, contrary to our hope that maybe the refuge was above the rain clouds, as we ascended the mountain, the rain got heavier and heavier, then much colder.
By now, Dad was miles behind, shepherding the mis-firing and poor handling Honda of Michael, whilst Andy was miles in front of me, confidently slinging his Vin around whichever kind of bend the Dolomites threw at him. I didn't expect to keep up, after all I had come on this trip to learn and get used to the bike. However, I also didn't expect what came next.
The rain turned to hail, then snow. My visor began to ice up, and despite how much I love my bike, for the first time ever, I'd have done anything to swap it for a car (or a snowplough for that matter!) Feeling as if I had been transported into a Hollywood film set, so sudden was the change in weather, I gingerly proceeded up the mountain. For the first time in my life, 10mph felt too fast!
As I rounded a particularly slippery 180 degree bend, the most enormously steep hill I had ever seen lay in front of me. I was tempted to stop there and then, but a tyre trail, already almost completely filled in by new snow, indicated that Andy was not far ahead. I took a deep breath and eased my way up the hill. As I reached the top, feeling enormously proud that I'd managed not to drop the bike, an unmistakable red Vincent came the other way…
"We're going the wrong way, we'll have to go back down," said Andy.
"You're having a bloody laugh." I could have killed someone.
"It's not so bad, just use your feet as skis and try not to use the brakes or you'll lock the wheels…"
"Thanks Andy, wish I had your optimism. How exactly are we supposed to stop without braking then?"
We eventually managed to reach the bottom of the hill and met Dad and Michael coming up. A short ride up a tiny side road we'd missed (skate down the 30-degree incline - fortunately helped by two well thawed out chaps) saw us parked safely just outside the refuge's garage, which was already full of bikes whose riders had the pleasures of arriving before the snow came.
Twenty minutes in the boiler house at the refuge and I could once again feel my hands and feet. I wasn't going to repeat that journey in a hurry. As it turned out, nobody would. Snowed in for two days, -6 outside and nothing to do except talk about how good the roads normally are in the Dolomites and drink copious amounts of beer and wine. Shame! Riders from UK, Holland, Germany, Austria, Switzerland, Italy and even the USA were in attendance at this little end of season bash of the Vincent club. There were many interesting tales and everybody was interested in the Morini.
Coming up that mountain, I may have been absolutely petrified, but there was no way I could fault the Dart. I'd ridden in sunshine, Rain and Snow, almost non-stop on the motorway for 3 days; 1,600Km without missing a single beat! I have to admit I wasn't expecting that, especially after the problems, which we cured only 2 days before setting off for Italy.
Finally, on Monday the snow cleared. It was brilliant sunshine outside, and the ice was beginning to melt. Now would come the fun part. We put our thermals on as even the 'warm' parts were only +1 degree, and left the refuge, hoping the tales of 20-degree sunshine down in the valley were true. It took a few miles until I was confident the road was dry, and then the real fun began. I knew the Morini's capabilities were way beyond mine, but that helped as I knew that so long as I didn't push myself too hard, the bike would stay true. As I became surer of the bike and myself, I began to ride faster, braking later and leaning it into corners with more and more confidence.
Of course, I will never be a racer - dad and Andy were always miles in front of me, but the important thing is that I was riding roads of the like I'd never seen before, on a bike I was largely unfamiliar with. I was improving all the time, and the Morini seemed to just go wherever I wanted it to. No matter how I drove it, the bike was always completely sure-footed. Proper Italian pizza in Cortina was fantastic, and the famous Ice man exhibition in Bolzano gave an outlet to culture.
Two days of hills, hairpins and straights. Bliss. But it had to end Wednesday morning as I was due to Start University on the Saturday. We woke up to a bright glowing from outside the window. Were we lucky or what? The previous evening had been dull, and we'd expected snow or at least rain. To our horror, the glowing turned out to be reflection off the soft white snow that had fallen overnight. As I remembered from before, coming down icy slopes was much worse than going up. A trouble-free 15Km later and dad and I were once again on the Brenner pass, bikes pointed in the direction of England with the intention of driving till our bums could take it no more. At about 7pm we arrived in Annweiler in Germany, just across the border from France. It was piddling down again and we were wet, bedraggled and happy to stop. Not a bad days riding, so we decided to call it quits there. 180-DM (£60) got the pair of us a fantastic meal and very comfortable room with a remarkable Breakfast.
Thursday morning we set off on the homeward straight. It was again pouring down and in the rush to get going Dad made a mistake fitting his panniers. Onto the Autobahn and head for France. We had not gone 50 km when a massive object flew off Dad's Vincent, and went bouncing across the road. Narrowly avoiding it, I did my best emergency stop and pulled in to the hard shoulder. Dad hadn't noticed and so continued up the road. I recovered the pannier; slightly chipped, but remarkably intact and waited until a rather concerned looking Arthur came trundling the wrong way down the hard shoulder. He hadn't noticed the pannier was missing and obviously thought I'd dropped the Morini. The look on his face when he saw me clutching his luggage!
Back on the road, wind it up to 85 and don't stop till we run out of fuel. Well that was the plan anyway. Passing a Verdun service station at 2 PM and the Vincent begins to slow down. The biggest plume of smoke comes pouring out of the exhaust. Terminal engine failure. (Holed piston caused by huge amount of water in the front carb which caused it to run very weak, but not misfire)
After spending nearly 4 hours trying to explain (in our best Anglo-French of course) to the French recovery service that "La Moto is old et cannot be fixed sans special parts," we finally got the bike onto a recovery lorry. The rest of the trip I would spend following a rented Fiat Punto. Why is it that when you're abroad and haven't a clue where you're going everybody seems to drive silver Fiat Puntos?
Completely fed up and a little de-moralised we pressed on, caning the arses off the Fiat and Morini so we could get as close to home as possible. It began to rain heavily. Double-speed windscreen wipers and turn the heater up for dad. (Tom never knew about the additional comfort of Radio 4, surprisingly well received in this part of France - Dad) Grin and bear it for me, straight through several thunderstorms of the "forked" variety. Apart from fuel we didn't stop again that day, and at 10pm we rolled into Calais, tired and wet. This time, however we had a guaranteed bed for the night, as dad had rung a French speaking mate in the UK who found and booked us into a hotel.
Dad's dead bike arrived in Calais at 14.00 on Friday, and we caught the first ferry home. Back in England and I felt like a god. I had driven the continent in the worst weather I'd ever seen. My Morini was still in one piece, and I'd have some great photos to show my mates.
15 riding hours Italy to Calais isn't at all bad and the trip was thoroughly enjoyable, despite not going entirely to plan (what Trans-continental motorcycle journey does?) It did however prove a few things. Just after I bought the Dart, I thought I'd made a real mistake. Bad reputation as "only half a Morini" and an insurance quote £500 more than an older 3 ½ made me feel less than happy about my purchase. However, the Dart excelled itself in every single way possible. It was more than capable of keeping up with dad's Vincent (old, but still seriously fast) and it also coped extremely well with the long, fast journeys we were doing. It proved to handle supremely in the Dolomites.
I know I knocked the emissions junk at the start of the letter, but I now see it as a complete package, rather than a pointless add-on. When I checked the oil in Italy, not only had the bike used virtually none, but also it was so clear that I couldn't see where it was on the dipstick. Moreover, we had noticed how little fuel the Morini was getting through compared to the Vincent, so on a motorway stretch in France, we both filled up and measured fuel consumption over the next hundred miles (bearing in mind this is at a constant 80/85 mph.) Whilst dad's bike returned a fairly respectable 40mpg, the Dart returned an absolutely phenomenal 81mpg!
The Dart really is an under-rated machine. It may not be a true Morini ("the poor outcome of Cagiva taking over," as the official Morini website puts it) but in my opinion it is the brilliant combination of Morini V-twin engine, modern chassis and reliability that makes the Dart's reputation somewhat unjust.
If you've got a Morini, then turn up to Morini club meetings or Cadwell Park. Go to Tescos on it if you like. Just use the thing and have some fun! I've only had mine a few months and already I've been to Italy and back. I'm not saying you should all go to that extreme, but I do think that we, as a club, need to promote the marque in motorcycling circles. Do we want the name Morini to die, or should it be recognised as once a small manufacturer of legendary race and road bikes?
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