Let’s be honest: the topic of noise splits the motorcycling world. Some riders love the roar of an open exhaust, others hate it — especially when it blasts into their ears in the wrong place, like in the middle of a city, or at the wrong time, like three in the morning when they're trying to sleep. But I think we can all agree on one thing: part of a motorcycle’s allure lies in its sound. Whatever comes out of that exhaust — whether legitimate or excessive — is music to our ears.
Every rider has their favorite soundtrack, and each is filled with pathos. I’ve learned to classify and recognize all of them since I was a kid — the harmonies of our motor symphony: the bubbling of a twin-cylinder, the deep and rich hum of a triple, the thrilling roar of an inline-four, and the guttural growl of a V4. I find the lazy rhythm of a touring single-cylinder relaxing, and I’m always captivated by the sharp, aggressive beat of a high-performance thumper.
Have you ever heard the siren-like concert of a six-cylinder? Or been haunted by the two-stroke symphony — maybe from those powerful 125s of the ’90s? Pure magic! I may be showing my age, but my personal sound archive even includes the chant of the old Lambretta and the coughing rattle of the earliest Vespas. And that’s not all — there are also background sounds: the gasping breath of certain intakes, the valve ticks of the Guzzi V7, and the metallic flutter of Ducati’s dry clutches.
We grow attached to these sounds, just like we do to certain smells or colors. I was in love with the song of my first real motorcycle — a red and white Morini 125 Corsaro. I’d ride from Bellagio to Como with my ears to the wind, wearing a pudding-bowl helmet and no gloves — because I couldn’t afford them. I was lucky to survive.
Other engines have made it into my collection of unforgettable sounds: from the Laverda 750 SFC to the mighty BMW 1000 boxer, which sounds like an airplane. Today, my favorite sound might be that of a big Ducati at mid-to-high revs — a bold, borderline-legal voice that’s full, clear, and thrilling, almost divine.
But for me, the ultimate symphony will always be that of the Suzuki RG 500 — a Grand Prix two-stroke four-cylinder. I’m talking about the first privateer version from 1976 — the one that crackled when warming up and howled like a cat when it was ready. Later that season, the original four megaphone exhausts were replaced with silencers — a crime, if you ask me.
That year, the FIM made a mess of things. Some overly zealous bureaucrat decided: “From now on, all GP bikes must be silenced.” Just like that, we had to scramble to comply. At the first race — the Belgian GP at Spa on July 5 — I had four ugly cans slapped on top of the pipes, lost a thousand RPM in sixth gear, and suffered a near-instant breakdown. Because you can’t just improvise with expansion chambers and gas flow.
Thanks to those absurd restrictions, MV Agusta and four-stroke engines were wiped out — while Formula 1 kept on roaring, motorcycle racing was forced to mumble. That is, until modern MotoGP bikes came along — finally screaming like they should. No debate here: a race bike must sound loud.
