This whole reverse-engineering thing isn't exactly news in China. Witness the Chang Jiang 750. The CJ750M1 is essentially a knoc
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From the archives: Riding tips from Nick Ienatsch from the November 1991 issue of Motorcyclist magazine.
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When Ducati's new 990cc desmosedici MotoGP racer competed for the first time at Suzuka this April in the hands of Troy Bayliss and Loris Capirossi, it represented the end of a 40-year odyssey for the Italian factory--to at last see one of the three four-cylind
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Highly anticipated and hard fought, it is an annual event with weighty social, political and economic implications. Sort of like Chelsea Clinton's coming-out party with knee pucks and Z-rated rubber. Inked with the same blood-red Sharpie(R) we use to mark Pamp
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You're right. Some days we do have the world's best job. Take the one where Yamaha's Brad Banister invited us out to sport around on the racetrack with Anthony Gobert and Tommy Hayden on their 600 Supersport-spec YZF-R6s. Morning coffee was not our preferred S
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If you didn't know it was there, you'd probably drive right past it. In fact, the only clue to its presence is a small, weathered wooden sign sunk right next to the narrow driveway. It reads--in what looks like hand-carved letters--"Grattan Raceway ."
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At 100 miles per hour, there's no time to contemplate the fact that the only singer/songwriter/guitar player in recorded history ever to rhyme ice water with flyswatter is right behind me.
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Against such a backdrop of bummers, motorcyclists had one small reason to rejoice: one of the Japanese manufacturers finally got it right. That manufacturer was Honda, and the motorcycle in question was its exquisite, jewel-like CB400F.
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So there you were in 1972, laying low, dodging the draft, tie-dyeing the cat, grooving to your Rod McEwen records, rebelling and protesting but most assuredly not inhaling. You thought that Honda's awesome 750 Four, a bike that had come out the same year man l
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The guy at the bar looked dazed, staring out of the 1975 Yamaha RD350 ad with bitter embarrassment. The copywriter's headline served up a little back-handed solace to wash down with that last swallow of beer from the mug in his hand. "Don't feel bad. You're no
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At AHRMA's yearly vintage-fest at Grattan, Michigan, we finally get our Formula 750 racer on track--though not without a hefty dose of last-minute hijinks and a little help from a man named Solo.
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Tuesday, March 7, 1995
"Son of a bitch!"
The words boomed from within Garage 21 like a reverse-cone megaphone at full honk.
Even without the profanity, I knew something was wrong. The movements of the garage inhabitants were too frantic, the air too t
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