Motorcycle Rider Aids

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Kevin Cameron has been writing about motorcycles for nearly 50 years, first for <em>Cycle magazine</em> and, since 1992, for <em>Cycle World</em>. (Robert Martin/)

A frequent theme of reader commentary concerns the idea that something valuable is lost from the motorcycling experience when various electronic interventions seek to enhance human abilities. The first of these was antilock brakes, or ABS. While the system cannot make more grip than actually exists, it can maintain stability while making maximal use of what is there. They can often save a situation in which, had there been no ABS, the force applied by a panicked rider would lock the wheel. A suite of other systems now exists, but in each case the degree of system intervention is rider-selectable.

It appeared to me that the application of such systems to production bikes was driven mainly by three forces:

1. There is pressure from governments to improve motorcycle safety, and because bike manufacturers prefer to do this voluntarily rather than have it imposed on them by regulators, they now provide electronic rider aids.<br/>
2. Rider aids have proven useful even to riders of the highest skills via their wide adoption in MotoGP, World Superbike, and other series.<br/>
3. During the recent Great Recession, when makers could barely fund any new models, the much lower cost of rider aids gave them alternative marketing tools.<br/>

Debate over rider aids has occasionally assumed an almost moralistic tone, as if accepting outside help in riding constituted theft of personal sovereignty. “I carry my own water.”

However, the intervention levels of the various systems are entirely voluntary (except for Euro 5 ABS systems); the rider can turn them off. This moves the debate to the cost of such systems. Why pay for them if you plan not to use them? The same argument can as easily be applied to engine horsepower, braking, or indeed to any other machine quality. If the buyer of, say, a Yamaha R1 or BMW S 1000 RR likes the look of the machine, yet plans to use no more than 90 hp or half of the machine’s ultimate braking power, why pay for all that extra unused capability? This is a senseless argument. If you dislike electronic rider aids, switch them off.

Therefore I want to propose a real-world example of the development of rider aids of a non-electronic kind: the racing career of Mat Mladin, seven-time US AMA Superbike champion.

When he came to Yoshimura Suzuki in the US, Mladin’s idea of how to improve lap times was to train harder—to do 100 press-ups instead of 50 or 75. A video made of his riding early in his career shows him rushing up to a corner much too fast, losing the front, and then somehow snatching control from the eight arms of chaos and just barely making it around. As the viewer thinks, “Now watch how cautious this crazy kid is at the next corner,” he does it again! And again—all the way around the track. Losing the front in every corner, then miraculously saving it. Clearly he had raw talent to burn and red-hot motivation.

Meanwhile a motorcyclist and climatology grad student in Amherst, Massachusetts, saw an ad in Cycle News, seeking applicants for a job as a computer data analyst. The advertiser was Yoshimura Racing. Ammar Bazzaz decided to “call or write for details.”

Arriving at Yosh HQ in California, Bazzaz at first didn’t really know what to do. But seeing a fair-sized empty fitted case made to hold a number of objects, he asked what it was.

“Oh, that. That held a bunch of different rear suspension linkages. Suzuki sent it to us.”

“Where are they now?”

“Dunno. Guess the different mechanics have ‘em squirreled away somewhere.”

Bazzaz spent the next few days finding the pieces, restoring them to their places in the case, and examining the notes and leverage ratio graphs originally packed with each linkage set.

The race season began, and the first thing to strike Bazzaz was that there was no baseline setup for the bikes. Each mechanic sent his rider out with more or less whatever setup had last been used.

“Where are the notes?”

“Notes? What notes?”

“The notes of what settings worked best at each track.”

“Nah, we don’t… See, you gotta understand how we do things here.”

Bazzaz also spoke with Mladin, who announced he had no use for nonsense like the three to five alternate gear ratios provided for each of the six gearbox speeds.

“Just a waste of time. I just ride it. Same with that computer stuff—means nothing to me.” Bazzaz set about teaching his rider to see the potential in the data, in alternative gear ratios, in differences in rear suspension linkage behavior. Mladin liked firm suspension; a rider can launch decisive maneuvers quicker from such a setup. But it also encouraged time-wasting wheelspin over less-than-smooth surfaces. There it all was, on the data, all he had to do was look. A little softer suspension and the spin disappeared, replaced by stronger acceleration. With the linkage on the bike, when Mladin throttled up, the bike squatted, pushing the front and heading for the outside. Only bad choices here: Throttle back and get passed, or stay in it and ride out into the marbles. The correct choice of second gear ratio could save 3/4 of a second on a single corner if it kept the engine in its band of strongest torque.

Top riders are not just happy masses of spinal reflexes that happen to work. They are intelligent people. Little by little, a partnership of trust was established, by which the two of them extracted from both the riding experience and the data information that shortened lap times. Push-ups and bicycle training have limits. Intelligent action may not.

Seven AMA Superbike championships. Arguably, Ammar Bazzaz, the computer data, and the use of logic to analyze and solve riding and setup problems constitute rider aids. Is their use immoral? Do they rob the rider of his or her individual sovereignty? Is there only one “right way” to enjoy motorcycling—as sheer reflex?

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