rafael pyton

“And it was go from the moment we met”. Yeah, I’m talking about my bike - but my biking buddies were all you could ask for, too. When our happy trio sat down for the first time back in March, you had an idea these guys won’t start weeping when it gets cold and wet, and big belly laughter will never be far away. Indeed I now stand confirmed. Baz & Zeg, princes among men.

Once the tears stopped dropping - it is really hard to say goodbye to your daughter - I found us booming along the 51 to Helsinki. We all had the same feeling of crazy liberation in our souls, barely believing that this was finally coming true. A wild animal was eating my heart. I had to pop a wheelie and shout WOOHOOO to the world from the inside of my helmet.

Yah, one piece of Hypermotard nice and clean and prepped to the toothbrushed max, with original Ducati accessories - obviously. See the sticker on the front wheel? Rubber’s fresh from the factory, man. I’m gonna lean over on this trip, you mark my words. And in that ridiculously small rear bag I managed to fit 4 socks and 4 pairs of underwear…

In Helsinki, we hogtied our brutes to the train. By the by, message to the greedy dog known as VR; we are not happy about paying full car price for bikes. VR, you suck. But we were on a deadline - there was a funeral to get back to and massive impatience to see Lapland nownownow, on the road. We woke up in Rovaniemi. It was a medium-sized miracle to see our bikes still upright after the rollercoaster night train that nearly derailed about seventythree times. Best way to travel? It is not by train.

It is by bike. To the amusement of the mosquito-bitten Rovaniemi crowd, we changed into riding gear at the train yard, and burned rubber past Santa’s workshop. Then it got cold. Then it started raining. Our situation started out as uncomfortable, changed into bad, and eventually settled on miserable. In Sodankylä we cured our frostbites with hot tea. Kaurismäki was not around, so we hauled our blue asses out of town and up to Inari.

My two Kawasaki-riding friends were cheating in their cosy Gore-Tex suits, but a hardcore biker (me) will always be smelling of leather, preferably by Dainese. While leather is really cool and totally Valentino Rossi, it is also really cold, and if it gets wet, you buy a new one. Why, I had no intention of getting my Gran Premio wet, so every time the drops fell on my nose, I had to pull a rainsuit - again, preferably by Dainese - on top of my leather suit. This is not as easy as it sounds, and takes acrobatic skills. By the time the trip was over, I had mastered the procedure. Right now, not by a longshot. But let’s not kill the rainsuit - or the condom, as it was soon nicknamed by the evil little men in Gore-Tex. Not only were I dry as the desert inside it, while even the Gore-Tex guys got a little moist in their pants during the worst downpours, it also worked as a windstopper, keeping me warm. Well, warm is not perhaps the right word. Alive. Just about.

You may now think that, since it was cold and raining, we were down and out like Bruce Springsteen in Nebraska. Hell no! We ripped Lapland apart with furious joy, and neatly avoided aquaplaning and running into Rudolf the raindeer and all his numerous friends. Just before Inari, the sun came out, the roads dried up, and the lake came in view all mysterious and glorious and religious. I had a deep Kalevala moment inside my helmet, half-expecting Iku-Turso to jump out of the dark waters and drag us down. Eerie. Where is Väinämöinen when you need him?

I had booked a cabin for us at Inari, right next to the lake, and upon arrival we immediately booked the beach-sauna away from the Germans. Naked Finland swam in Inari. We then got imaginative and drank beer and watched football on the world’s smallest TV in our cabin. Baz put us on Facebook, and Zeg snored like a walrus in a gravel factory the whole night.

Morning gave way to a chilly fog… ie, chilly while off the bike. When you moved at 200km/h (100 if the girlfriends read) chilly turns to ice age. But it was early morning and our inner fires were still burning bright and all cylinders were firing, and the Lapland roads were so easypeasy and straightfreight you could take a nap and dream about Miami for fifteen minutes and still find yourself on the road when you woke up. This changed the minute we set rubber on Norwegian soil. “Yeah!” is probably the word I’m looking for.
Soon, the drizzle and fog turned to rain. It didn’t matter. The scenery was now what one would consider exotic, and 3 pairs of eyes gobbled it up. Little did we know it was just a tiny taster of things to come.
Apart from the rain and a spell of 20km on nasty gravel, it was fine. Occasionally, when the sun came out and the roads dried up, we used the tourist buses and stray sheep for slalom practice. I would like to take this moment to thank the Norwegian road makers. Bless you, for you have no peers.
Suddenly, we exited a long tunnel to the other side of a mountain and the weather cracked down on us with the heavy whip. Oh shit. The cliffs go black with anger, roads feel so walled in and narrow, vision is, well, like looking through a long steel pipe. A couple of hundred kilometers of this, and concentration is jack-hammering your brain while you beg for mercy. Should we slow down? Have a break? Hell noo. This was no longer a vacation; it had become a mission. Damn, a riding mission to hell, touch the devil, escape his claw. Or something. It did feel like hell, I tell. Stone towers cast giant shadows, deep below the furious sea pounded away to the sound of anti-music. We were tiny mice in the picture.

And into the cold wet darkness of the Nordkapp tunnel we went. 7 kilometers long, more than 200 metres under sea level. Here, of all the places in the world you least would want to break down, the engine light on my Ducati started shining like a little fucking beacon. The bike coughed. I prayed. I cursed. I prayed again. And then I cursed some more.

Talk about emerge, truly emerge. Steady on the throttle, the bike kept climbing out of the deep hole and onto the other side. Over my wounded v-twin I think I heard angels sing. Hahaha! And you know what? Deep frozen like fish sticks we checked in at our Nordkapp cabins, and the sky turns blue. Blue! My favorite color!
We had the most expensive chicken burger ever in Honningsvåg, at 25€ a bite. But it was also the most delicious thing I have ever sank my teeth into. Having expended so much energy trying to keep the body warm enough to twist the bike into forward motion, we were so famished we would gladly have settled for a marinated chair.

We tried to find a store that would sell warm clothes. But at least we found a store that sold beer and joddlarkorv - that is “yodeling sausage” in the universal language. You know I had to buy. After which I yodeled so much Baz and Zeg went out on the porch of our tiny cabin.

We had plenty of daylight left - let’s face it, this is about the only commodity Nordkapp has in abundance - and the last and best 30 kilometers of road beckoned. Ladies and gentlemen, the end of the world, also known as latitude 71 North. With a belly full of chicken burger and joddlarkorv, we roared off. As stated, it soon became apparent that the final leg of the day was a Marsian paradise, with roads so twisty and beautiful I nearly blew my heart. Nordkapp MotoGP commenced. I will never forget this stage. The Ducati dove into the bends with glowing brakes, and shot out like a firebreathing bat.

It may be a cliché, but I’ll say it anyway. Man and machine became one. Yes. The previous suffering was gone, remaining was an adrenaline rush overload that still makes my body tingle just writing about it. Oh! My soul was utterly possessed! Completely unable to see the deadly drop-offs beyond each corner, I powered the life out of, in my deeply subjective opinion, the finest bike in the world.

At the end of the world, the cameras came out.

It had been an emotional day. Memories had been carved out of Norwegian rock. We took it easy on the way back to the cabin, snapping Ducati commercials and Kawasaki promotional pictures.

It was cold again the next morning, but the sun was out to embrace and the same road that had scared us witless was now our mistress. Even the Nordkapp tunnel seemed inviting…

…and altho the engine light came on again, I now figured it was due to the pressure sensor of being so far below sea level. No sweat. This was to be a sweet ride. On the way, Baz took a moment to meditate…

…and we even had time indulge in faraway beach poses.

Ah, it was pure enjoyment. It seems that fjords are standard equipment to roads, and we took no shortcuts. In the evening, we found our way to Burfjord, where I had managed to prebook a whole house for next to no money, courtesy of charming one-hundred year old lady Ingrid. It took quite a bit of gravel riding to get to this remote outpost, but no problem. I took a warm shower while Baz & Zeg went for food. Sadly, for them, the skies opened up in the biggest way, and I barely recognized the mud monsters that appeared some hours later. Yesyes, I still feel guilty about eating the juicy steaks they brought me… Anyway, the house was smashing, right by a fjord, fishing boats ran by and strange elves shuffled about in the woods.

As always, we told stories and had many beers. Mack rules! And then I had to go and try some of Zeg’s extremely potent snus, which made me dizzy and burned a deep hole in my gum. Behold one pretty biker, for your viewing pleasures.

Days will unfold, tales yet untold, hopefully soon, howl at the moon. What I want to say is, the unshaven hero bikers will return in To The Ends Of The World, Vol 2.

Epic ride begins tomorrow. The next two weeks me and my two riding buddies are chasing the horizon through the serpentines of Northern Norway, going all the way up to Nordkapp, and all the way out on Lofoten. Hear-hear-hear the howl of the Ducati twin!

Scarlett is always there to lend a “helping” hand, and likes nothing better than to tinker. But when those nasty bolts refuse to come loose, oh, how furious she gets!

Some things change, other things don’t. Brothers on bikes is one of the great constants.

I have a nose for bikes like Scrooge McDuck can find gold. And that’s how we ended up in the stands at a motocross race in Kauai… hey, works for me.

Motocross… I’ve been gone five years now, and there is no returning - but it still brings out the itch in the fingers. The sounds, the colors, the smells. Gawd damn. I’ve been here before. This place is familiar. I open the door, I come home, I step over the welcome mat, I am embraced.

Riding is the coolest expression of freedom and individualism, yet, this is a family sport. Boys and girls and grandpas, everybody rides in the USA. I just fall in love with humanity again.

They say you should start early. Little motorcycle ace Scarlett climbed atop daddy’s big bike. And behold - just like her dad always does, she immediately reaches for the throttle…

Brum brum bruuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmm!!!

Spring is the greatest invention since summer. I have been lapping it up like a dog, tongue out as far as anatomically possible. Slurp slurp. And the note on the door says “Gone ridin’… may return.”

Truly, bikes are drugs. I spend all my time off my Ducati thinking of when I can get more of it again.

It gets worse. I find myself watching Ewan McGregor & Charley Boorman’s motorcycle adventures with a very dreamy look in my mind. Very dreamy.

In case you don’t know, Ewan, also known as Obi-Wan Kenobi, did a fantastic motorcycle run from London to New York in 2004, crossing Kazakstan, Mongolia, Russia (gawd, the road of bones), Alaska, and so on, on big Beemer bikes. This travel documentary, Long Way Round, became a cult hit among those who enjoy the sound of burning pistons.
The follow-up came in 2007, Long Way Down, this time from John O’ Groats in Scotland to Cape Town, South Africa. Oh, those magnificent deserts in Africa… I ache, I long, I turn for the horizon.

Ewan is not your average actor. He is for real. He rides. Not well, but with heart. And he has my vote for president of our planet. I urge you to watch these two movies. They will make you feel better, about yourself, about others, about the state of the world. And if you are anything like me, you’ll want to get out there, get out and go, just go and go and go-go.
But do leave the bloody car at home. When you ride, you taste the earth. You are exposed to nature, you feel the structure of life, you find meaning.

I’ll start humbly with a two-wheeled trip to Tallinn tomorrow. Glada Vappen! But one of these days…

Until then, the messages remain: “Gone ridin’… may return.”

This winter was dragging on and on and ooon, and I was feeling the weight of the world all over, a heavy nausea that would not let go. I had been working too much all winter, and it was getting hard to swallow.

Suddenly, a break, a warm gust. The weather was changing. The air was at once full of great allergies. Better yet, the road was drying up. And the animal in me moved.

I opened the door to the garage. There it sat, still dormant, but ready to roar. I blew the dust from the gas tank. I stabbed a key where it fitted. I moved my thumb to the starter. How reluctant the cold twin cranked… wahwahwah… and then, finally, it cracked into fire, dadadadadadum. Ooh. Loud.

The fumes from the pipes were like musk, and I indulged freely. My heart was pounding. The bike was vibrating. No, kicking. Me, in the nuts.

And I let go of the clutch…

There is no need to express the feeling. I think you might have an inkling anyway. Let’s just say that I put in 100 quality kilometers during my lunch hour… and I screamed in mad ecstasy most of the way.

I feel at least 10 years younger right now, full of spunk, hot to trot, eager to experience, shout at the devil, run the gun, grow wings, fly. To think that they say Ducatis are expensive! Frankly, if they make you feel like I do right now, they are worth ten times what I paid.

If shoes maketh the man, Valentino Rossi racing boots by Dainese undoubtedly maketh the motorcycle man. I put these on, and feel better about myself, the world, even everyone else in it. Then I swagger around for awhile, most likely adding a few dance steps to the mix, watch my feet move in the big mirror, mirror on the wall.

And only then do I go out riding.

Carrie Bradshaw, I get you. Furthermore, I also assume most men don’t, because I found these, the great Vale’s own boots, at the new Bike World in Espoo, where they had been for the best part of 2008, unsold, unloved. Most men, and this is another assumption, don’t have the balls to wear one boot in bright neon yellow, the other in black. Me, please. Pizazz, dazzle! Discretion is not always the better part of valor.

Famous Italian brand Dainese is not only finest haute couture, they back it up on the track and spray it down with champagne; you are feasting your eyes on the best boots on the market, bar none, that money - quite a lot of money - can buy. Inside these ultralight babies you find carbon fiber ankle braces and titanium parts. And my feet. Frankly, the thought of breaking my ankles into bits again does not appeal to me at all. I had to get these boots. There was no question about it.

Why, I strapped myself into them at the store. They fit like gloves, which is weird because they are boots. Then I walked around in them for awhile, trying to talk myself into seeing past the price tag. I’m quite good at winning arguments against myself, so I eventually prevailed, and walked up to the sales girl, fully intent on paying anything she charged me and a little on top.
But just to press my luck, I asked if they have an offer on these demo boots… and… and… and she slashed half the price off!

As I said, it takes a special kind of man to wear one bright neon yellow boot. And who’s that there at the counter? “Cough“, I coughed, “well, in that case I guess I can take them off your hands…” My smile betrayed me in the worst way, but the fact remained that I was coming home with Valentino Rossi’s boots!

You would dance too.

You don’t need a helmet if you have a hard, hard head… but mine is soft. Softer still when I think of the plastic that has protected me throughout the years. God knows I’m the kind of guy that needs protection.

I wish I could regale you with pictures as well, but most of the buckets I’ve worn has passed to the eternal - it’s plastic, after all - junkyard in the anti-sky. But if you are passionate about something, if you live and breath and, in my case, leave kisses stinking of gasoline, you develop strong bonds with the most unnatural of things and dead materia. Motorcycle guys, already a breed apart from start, have very special relationships with their helmets. You will see. Say hello to my six closest friends.

The first one - you always remember your first - inhabits a particularly warm spot in my heart. It was bought for a packet of peanuts and a handshake, but the price matters not when you browse memories experienced in this crimson bowl. White visor, bolt-on red mouthguard, I rode the rivets out of it from age 12 to 14, and it also did duty as my street helmet during moped age from 15 to 18. By then I had ripped away the mouthguard, and covered every single inch of it in stickers, the more ridiculous the better. It certainly stood out…
Better yet, it covered my brain cells when I crashed into the side of a silver Toyota. For the record, it was not my fault. I trashed that car, yet escaped with a mere busted knee. But the amount of blood that a knee can fit without exploding would shake you, if you had seen me in the hospital later… they needed a tanker to empty it. Moreover, my head was intact. Well done, first helmet. I really didn’t want to end my story that early. I owe you, little red thing of generic shape.

My second helmet was the Yes helmet. It is the only helmet of mine I hate. It was ugly, and never protected me, because I never hit the ground hard enough in it - not that I tried, though, I just never really landed on my head in it. But my apple looked like a bloody melon in it. I guess it had looked good on the shelves… I came into my own in this helmet, however. The first time I passed my father on the motocross track, I was wearing the huge Yes helmet. My dad was an old racer, and when I first began riding, I figured he would forever kick my ass. There was no way I was ever going to become that fast, you kidding me?!
Two years later, on a Husqvarna 500cc - I was 14 - I passed him. I thought he was sandbagging at first, but then I passed him again. Dad would deny it, but it really frustrated him. In retrospect, I think this was when I first made my claim at manhood.

With my third helmet, I moved into player status. It was by AXO, and made famous by Alex Puzar. Now, pay little mind to these names; to me, he was the coolest, most stylish Italian on the circuit, and I just had to have his helmet. How I loved it!
By this time, I was already on the first of a very long string of Honda CR 250s, a racing weapon I would continue to use and abuse in the coming years, with the exception of one very fast Yamaha. But that’s another story alltogether.
My AXO helmet saved my hide on several occasions, a plethora of plastic scars lived to tell the tale of youthful über-exuberance and the shitloads of spunk that ran in my veins during these years. I was sad when I sold it to a friend. But I bet he never got the sweat out of it… I drained my whole body into that thing, while looking like Alex Puzar.

Then Jeremy McGrath burst onto the scene. He wore a Bell Moto 5, painted by Troy Lee Design, and it said Showtime on the back, including some fairly cool yellow flames and ubiquitous eyeballs. It cost 2500 Finnish marks, but to me it was worth the GNP of Finland. The store manager who sold it to me asked me why I needed such an expensive helmet. I looked at him like he was crazy, and pointed to my head… If you have a 25 dollar head, get a 25 dollar helmet.
My father died in 1999. Me and my brother did not ride at all the whole year, sold all our bikes. 1999 is my version of hell. The next year, we swore to put an end to it. We spent a lifetime riding with dad, and nobody or nothing was taking that away. Before the snow of 2000 had melted, we had acquired a new bike. And I still wore the Bell Moto 5 with pride, perhaps with too much pride, definitely with more speed than ever. Outside that helmet I may have been a troubled man with the world heavy on my shoulders, but once tucked inside familiar space, I was able to channel all the fucking bitterness of the shitty world into paradise with fireworks. With the exception of writing, it was the only thing that made me feel alive. On a good day, on my favorite track, when the sun was shining, I ran with anyone.

Then came the Shoei VFX-R. It is the only helmet I still have left, a morbid memento of another tragedy. As far as helmets go, it is still the archetype of aggressiveness. Looking fast is almost as important as going fast, you know. I’d eat people in this one; was never faster. Unfortunately, my peaks were punctuated rather than elongated.
I was never faster, true. In fact, I never really knew how fast I could go - with the exception of my best race ever, where I ripped away from everyone right off the gate. By lap three I had such a big lead I was starting to think how absolutely heroic I must look to the spectators… and totally lost concentration in a fast left-hand sweeper, flew off track and came back down on my shoulder. Hard. It dislocated so far it might as well have been in another town. When they finally got my shirt off, people nearly fainted. Body parts were pointing in all the wrong directions. I looked like Quasimodo. That shoulder still hurts.
Six weeks later I was back. And just in case anyone thought it had slowed me down - they all did - I promptly went out and busted the lap record. Oh, it was my finest hour!

27.11.2004, the next year, I died. But I couldn’t have died in a nicer helmet. And since I actually lived, I make it a point to never wear anything else than Shoei.

Which brings me here - finally, some might say - to my last helmet to date. Since my legs have the structural strength of spaghetti these days, I have been forced to take to the streets. But a blood-red supermoto Ducati goes some way to making up for what I’ve lost.
It seems safe to say I have established that I need protection. This is it, this is me, this is who - not what - is protecting me today: the Shoei Hornet DS in, oh yes, matt black.