At any given time, I own somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five motorcycles. There are bikes in my garage, in nearly every relative’s garage, in my office—on the second floor, no less—in my house, and scattered across the garages of close friends from here to California and back. For a while, I had one motorcycle’s worth of parts stashed in three or four different states.

When people from the outside world ask how many bikes I own—and if I’m foolish enough to answer honestly—the reaction is always the same: some wild-eyed “are you crazy?!” head-spinning dance followed by, “TWENTY-THREE MOTORCYCLES!? YOU CAN ONLY RIDE ONE AT A TIME, YA KNOW?!”

But owning twenty bikes at my age just feels… normal. I’ve spent over forty years on two wheels. And maybe every couple of years during that span, I’ve come across a bike that spoke to me—called out from the past in a voice I couldn’t ignore. Not one of them is a rare collectible. I mean, who doesn’t need a Honda Hawk GT or an SV650?

I’ve somehow managed to hang on to an RZ350, an XR750, RZ500, two SRX-6s—one of which I “raced”—and the 1981 GPz550 I bought brand new when I was 19. A couple of Honda CBXs came and went, and I wasn’t sad to see them go. I've always said the two best days of CBX ownership are the day you buy a CBX and the day that you push that rolling engine display stand into the pool.

I’ve owned a 1983 KZ750L3 (really just a '82 GPz750 with a tie and a haircut) for decades. And if I ever have to sell my 2011 CB1000R—the best streetbike Honda’s made in a long while—I guess I’ll find something to replace it as my daily rider. (Right now my daily is a CB-1.)

But sometimes, a bike doesn’t just whisper—it pulls you. That’s how I found myself last month, standing in a frozen alley in St. Paul, looking at a beat-up but still breathtaking Ducati 916. It was 26 degrees. The wind howled. The ice underfoot dared me to fall.

I’d spotted the 916 on Craigslist: $2,000. I called the seller. We talked. An hour later, my oldest son John and I were on the road to see it.

While he drove, my brain started digging through the 916 files: Ferracci. WSBK. Fogarty. Mladin. Frankie Chili at Monza. And above all, Tamburini. Massimo Tamburini. The man who designed the 916. I met him once. We drank coffee together. Ate dinner across from each other. I breathed in the smoke from his endless cigarettes. I topped off his water glass when it ran dry. When he spoke, I stopped and listened. Did I understand most of it? Not really—his English was patchy and my Italian is limited to a few colorful insults.

Still, the presence of the man was unforgettable.

Back in the early ’90s, when the 916 was just a rumor, it felt like the whole industry held its breath. And when it finally dropped, it was an earthquake. Even now, nearly thirty years later, few serious enthusiasts would argue: the Ducati 916 is one of the most significant motorcycles ever built.

The first time I saw one in the flesh was at the Spanish Grand Prix in Jerez. Someone from a British magazine had ridden one there and parked it in the dusty VIP/media lot. In those days, if you wanted in on race day, you arrived before 6:00 a.m., parked, and slept in your car. I was mid-nap when I heard it—the sound of a 916 pulling in. I sat up and saw it parked nearby, its rider walking into the paddock.

As I gathered my gear, the entire Marlboro Team Roberts entourage rolled in and parked around me. They all gravitated toward the 916. Within seconds, it was surrounded. Kenny Roberts, center stage, stood transfixed.

I walked toward them, then stopped. Was this a photo op? Team Roberts, staring at the Ducati? I reached for my Nikon. But by the time I got it out, they’d turned and were heading into the paddock. That image, that moment—the 916 stopping Kenny Roberts in his tracks—never left me.

Back to St. Paul, 2017. We parked. I found a patch of ice that only half-threatened my neck. The seller—maybe 21 years old—rolled the 916 out of a garage. John helped him get it on a stand.

It was really a 916. Those unmistakable lines drawn at the Cagiva Research Center. The red paint. The gray trellis frame. The "Made in Italy" sticker. Showa forks. Ohlins shock. This one had miles, and it had stories—scars on both sides from tasteful low-sides, patched up with care.
A neighbor needed out of their driveway, so John moved the truck. I was left alone with the kid.


Silence fell. A musty, generation-old silence. His Subaru idled nearby, girlfriend in the passenger seat, never looking up from her phone. My jacket or my boots—maybe both—were older than the current owner of this 916.

I tried to cut through the silence.

Me: I knew the guy who designed this bike. He’s considered the Leonardo da Vinci of motorcycle design.

Kid: Oh really? It was my uncle’s bike. Then my dad’s. He left it here.

Me: His name was Massimo Tamburini. This was his masterpiece.

Kid: It won’t start. Tried last summer, no luck.

Me: He designed others after this—a line of MV Agustas. But this one? This is the one that’ll still look modern in a hundred years. It already does.

Kid: Um ...You want to make an offer?

John reappeared and the conversation stopped. As he approached, I gave him my very best HOLY CRAP IT’S A REAL 916, MONOPOSTO, NO LEAKS poker face.

“What’re we doing?” John asked. “You buying this one, or is it my deal? How many bikes do you own now, anyway?”


I gave the 916 one last look. The memories rushed back: Chili at Monza. Mladin at Elkhart. Tamburini slicing his steak with surgical precision. Fogarty and Tardozzi arguing in a car, each ending with “You don’t understand.”

Too many memories. Too much past, too fast.

“Your bike. Your deal,” I said to John.

He handed over the cash. We loaded it up.

I’ll probably own a 916 someday. Or maybe an MV. But not this one.

On the way home, with the Ducati secured, I suggested we stop for pizza. The wood-fired kind, oily and fragrant with basil—just like they serve it in Italy. I ate pizza like that once with Tamburini, at Claudio Castiglioni’s house.

After lunch, we walked back to the truck. As we got close, I saw two heads peering into the bed.

I’m used to this. A white-haired couple had spotted the 916. It was 26 degrees, but they were lingering. Admiring.

I squeezed past them with a smile.

As I got in the truck, I heard the man say to his wife, in awe: “That’s quite a motorcycle. It must be brand new.”