According to the bumper sticker, “God rides a Harley”. That may be true, but if He fancies putting the fear of Himself into Himself He should book a place on the Ducati Riding Experience. This is track-day heaven for bikers, and anyone with a modicum of skill and a lot of courage can have a go. But be warned: it is not for the faint-hearted. The bike I am about to ride is the Superbike 1098, claimed to be the world’s most powerful twin-cylinder production motorcycle. It is almost the equivalent of taking an average motorist who fancies himself behind the wheel and offering him a go in Lewis Hamilton’s Formula One car — on a racetrack.

The course takes place on the remodelled Misano track in Italy, a technically challenging 2Å-mile strip of tarmac. The aim is to give Ducati customers the chance to experience their bikes in the way that was intended. That is to say, flat out. There are four courses, each lasting a full day on the track and catering to all levels of expertise from “basic”, for beginners, through to “master” for people like me who think of themselves as skilful.

I should state here that I am a Ducati fan. No other bike looks like a Ducati and no other bike sounds like a Ducati. But what matters here — at the Misano circuit — is that no other bike can corner like a Ducati. The great joy of motorcycling is to hammer into a corner, squeeze the brakes and feel the triple discs put wrinkles in the tarmac, then crank the thing over as far as your ability and bravery and the ground clearance will allow before opening the throttle as the long black ribbon of tarmac straightens into the distance.

You want comfort? Don’t buy a Ducati. You want to take a passenger? Don’t buy a Ducati. You want to go around the world on a “Ewan and Charley” voyage of self-discovery? Don’t buy a Ducati. These are race-bred superbikes. They will find out what you’re made of and the track is the judge and jury and, if you get it wrong, the executioner.

Sometimes — if you get it right — then, for a moment, you feel like Carl Fogarty, history’s most successful world superbike racer. More often than not I felt like Barry Sheene, the now dead motorcycle champion with more crashes to his name and repairs to his body than the Six Million Dollar Man.

For six weeks I had been dieting to fit into the supplied suit (we can do it when we have to, can’t we girls?). And boy, did it feel good. The leather is made from kangaroo, not cow, and there is no other item of clothing that can make you feel as heroic as a one-piece motorcycle racing suit can. In comparison, car-racing outfits feel like romper suits that happen to be fireproof.

The only problem is that all-leather suits are hot. So there I was in the pit lane gently frying in the 38C heat, looking over my 1098. Dario Marchetti, the instructor, told me the grip levels on the bike and on the track were phenomenal. “It’s virtually impossible to crash,” he said.

Filled with confidence, I fired up the bike and headed out to the track — where I crashed. It happened like this: one minute I was blasting down the straight at more than 100mph, then I was into the corner. I was halfway through it and going, well, fast. To take the corner at that speed, I was forced to lean the bike over too far. The bike started riding on the tyres’ sidewalls. As a result, it slid from under me and I bounced along the ground at 60mph. “Thanks, Skippy,” I thought as I went backwards on my backside.

The Italian people didn’t seem to mind that I had crashed their beautiful motorcycle. Marchetti suggested I might be unused to the heat — what with me being from Manchester and everything — and I should have a rest. He then took me out onto the track for a one-to-one and rode behind and alongside me to observe close up what I was doing wrong, which was just about everything. My riding style was perfect ... for the 1950s. “Like Mike Hailwood,” he said. He didn’t mean I had any of the ability of one of the greatest

British bike racers. Rather that, like Hailwood, I refused to budge my red, leather-clad backside from the security of the seat. “The motorcycle must be more upright in the corner,” said Marchetti. “So, you must use the body, shift your weight.”

I did what I was told. And straight away I was quicker. Especially through the corners. So next time you see a biker weaving between the traffic or blasting down a B-road, don’t tut and shake your head while sitting in your air-conditioned four-wheeler. Remember: he thinks he’s Fogarty, he’s having the time of his life and he ought to go on the Ducati Riding Experience.

Taking it to the limit

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