MV AGUSTA MONZA
Scoop gets to ride a tastefully modified MV Agusta Monza and plots how he can sell his soul to get one.
Steve Cooper rides this red rocket!
My interests in the MV Agusta marque began before even I had a licence; probably early 1971. We were on a family trip to South Wales and we’d just climbed the original and somewhat tortuous Heads of the Valley road. My dad spotted a bike hustling towards us and swiftly wound down the window, saying: “Listen to this son, it’s going to be special.” And it was. Some very well-heeled enthusiast was working an early 750S MV Agusta really hard and giving it the beans. In a world still largely inhabited by British iron and small Hondas, any four-cylinder motorcycle was unusual and MVS even more so. The wail of those four pipes and the singularly unique cosmetics made a very serious impression on this callow youth; from that point onwards a ride on a four pot offering from Gallarate has always been on the bucket list. And amazingly, dreams apparently do come true....
Sitting here is an MV Agusta 750 Monza, in traditional ‘fire engine’ red. It’s arguably one of the most charismatic paint schemes for the original MVS and works just as well over both the flat side-panels and tail piece as it does on that iconic curvaceous fuel tank. Some might think that carrying the vermillion theme over on to the guards and chassis would amount to an aesthetic overkill and yet it works. That sand-cast engine/transmission unit takes the edge off what might otherwise be a ridiculous red ruse, and those gold-painted cast alloy wheels offer yet another visual counterpoint.
MV aficionados may have spotted that the Monza’s exhausts are not automatically the ones that the bike may have left the factory wearing. Look a little harder at the lower rear of the Italian stallion’s drive train and you’ll also spot something that’s very definitely non-factory fitment: the bike is running a chain-drive and not the archetypal MV shaft-drive. Add those pipes and the drive chain together and you can only reach one logical conclusion – our test bike sports the considered upgrades supplied by former GP chief mechanic, long-term MV employee and subsequently purveyor of specialist MV Agusta parts, Arturo Magni (pronounced Maani).
Few will need clarification as to what those matt-black pipes are and knowing they are without baffles is only going to improve the auditory experience later on. The chain-drive conversion might warrant a little more explanation. The removal of the bevel drives front and rear that powered the
shaft-drive free up more power (up to seven per cent of engine power is lost with each right angle change in the drive train.) The rear bevel box, pinion and housing also added a lot of un-sprung mass to the rear-end, reckoned to be in the region of some 18-20kg. However, perhaps the biggest benefit for long-term ownership is reliability.
The vital bearing in the shaft-drive system at the gearbox end was always the MV’S Achilles heel. Relying on just random levels of splash lubrication, the bearing was well known for failing and to such a level that some MV750 specialists today treat it as a service item. Failure of that very item was also the reason why factory rider Giacomo Agostini had to drop out of the 1972 Imola 200 when leading the pack. This simple mechanical failure was pivotal in Paul Smart winning the race. If you’ve similarly spotted the Magni box-section swingarm then well done – it replaces the original factory item as part of the conversion and keeps the back end in line and under control.
If you’re not familiar with four cylinder MVS, here’s a quick overview. The bike has its origins in the 1920s/30s when Paulo Remor designed a DOHC 500, four-pot race bike that soon became the famous Gilera 4. By 1950 MV Agusta had persuaded Remor to work for them and design their race bikes. The first road-going four was the infamous 600 tourer that only ever sold in small numbers due to its seriously strange appearance – it was nicknamed The Black Pig! Every subsequent four cylinder MV carries facets of both the 600 and the race bikes along with some unusual design foibles. Most obvious is the car-type distributor behind the four individual cylinders, which each have to be shimmed to the same height in order to mate properly with the one-piece cylinder head. Not so obvious is the crankshaft location, which utilises carrier blocks that hang down from the upper section of the horizontally split crankcases. The lower half of the crankcase is, to all intents and purposes, little more than an oil-tight lower cover-cum-sump.
In essence, the engine is a race-shop motor modified just sufficiently for it to be used as a road machine. Therefore, there’s no alternator on the end of the crank as per most early Japanese fours. Instead, tucked away on the rear lower right-hand
side below the output shaft is a relatively chunky dynamo with two pulleys and two drive belts. One set supplies 12 volts for the electrical system with the other pair, operated via a handlebar switch and solenoid, running the dynamo as a starter motor
– the engine’s competition ancestry means there was never any provision for a kick starter. Whilst an MV four-cylinder motor might look something like a late 70s or early 80s Universal Japanese Motorcycle, it’s anything but. To all intents and purposes it’s effectively a late 1950s/early 1960s racing engine adapted for road use.
So what we have in front of us is a thinking man’s MV Agusta four benefitting from the considered upgrades of Arturo Magni, who had spent most of his life working on MV’S legendary race machines along with the road bikes that theoretically helped balance the profit and loss sheets. Knowing this, I’m expecting something more than a little special and first impressions don’t disappoint. Throwing a leg over the bike and settling into the racing seat confirms that this is unquestionably a rider’s machine; the people who designed and built this bike were motorcyclists themselves. The adjustable clip-on bars are low, but not uncomfortably so; the pegs are aft of the swingarm pivot, but too high.
Immediate impressions count and everything so far is positive. The twin gauges are British Smiths Instruments in origin and bought in to replace the notoriously unreliable Italian units previously used. Gone are the frankly naff ‘cheap and nasty’ pressed metal switches that were OEM fitment on the previous 750S. Our test bike runs Aprilia controls that bear more than a passing resemblance to the Nippon Denso units upon which they may or may not be based. And all of this increased expense was set against the fact that even as MV was struggling to justify motorcycle production, the bean counters really only wanted to be bothered with the
substantially more profitable helicopter side of the business
Enough analysis, let’s get to the heart of this icon and fire it up. The twin plastic fuel taps are turned to ON and the choke of the 26mm VHB Delorto’s flicked up. Betraying the bike’s 1960s ancestry, the ignition key is mounted on a gusset plate between the left side’s top and front frame rails. With that in and turned on it’s just a stab of that apparently random red button on the right bar and the engine comes alive. Aprilia’s switchgear obviously didn’t come with an integral starter switch, so you either have to unnaturally extend your right thumb over the kill switch assembly or use your left hand. Plan B is best as it allows you to catch the motor on the throttle as it fires up from cold, but once the engine is warm there’s no need for a two-handed approach. Should you ever have the good fortune to ride one of these machines, I challenge you not to instantly blip the throttle! Teenage or schoolboy memories come flooding back of the likes of Agostini, Read, Bonera, et al riding their race bikes at GPS and in an instant you feel momentarily part of that very special privileged inner circle. Those four unsilenced pipes let loose a battle cry like little else and it’s oh so easy to grasp the racing heritage beneath you; those 37 stars on the tank decal each genuinely represent a world championship...we’ll be taking no prisoners today then!
With the engine warm and ticking over nicely the overriding sound is the rustle off the cam train and it’s like nothing else out there… V4s included! The four carburettors rasp when provoked as there’s no air-box on this example, yet it’d be challenging to emphatically state such a set up is non-standard – but why? The Monzas were made en masse for American orders that never materialised and many were modified by importers for specific market and customer requirements. Therefore, some examples did indeed have proper fififiltration and an air-box.
Clutch in and tap the box into first on the left-hand lever, which is another change from the old 750S and militated by American automotive legislation. Letting the clutch out and opening the throttle liberates an exhaust note like little else and as I work my way through the five-speed box there’s
crescendo after crescendo of Gallarate history assailing the environment.
It’s not a quiet bike by anyone’s standards, yet no one in sleepy Suffolk seems to be taking exception; on the contrary, the Monza seems to get nothing but admiring glances or outright smiles. It’s that kind of machine, but quite how your neighbours might feel about those decibels every sunny weekend morning could be another matter.
Even though Arturo Magni latterly produced his own frames for the four-pot motors after MV ceased production, for most mere mortals there’s little wrong with the factory chassis. The bike immediately feels planted and secure in ways period Oriental machines would only achieve many years later.
It’s hard to convey just how ‘right’ the bike feels when ridden through a series of bends; the phrase ‘confidence inspiring’ really doesn’t do the chassis justice. Historically, period Italian iron has generally come across as exhibiting stunning handling that’s unfortunately on the harsh side of firm, but not on the MV Monza.
The suspension is taught, but not hard, it responds to the vagaries of UK roads by absorbing g the worst of the imperfections, whilst relaying to thet rider exactly what’s happening beneath those Metzler tyres. In modern terms the bike isn’t fast, it’s relatively heavy and its frame geometry was arguably antediluvian by the time it left the factory, yet that combination of springing and damping just goes to show you don’t have to have big fat tyres and steep steering head angles in order to scythe through bends. How would I rate this example against its peers in terms of handling? Well, it totally eclipses anything from Japan, as you might rightly expect. It’s more flickable than Ducatis of the period and I’d hazard a guess saying that it would be a close run thing if you put it up against the likes of a Rickman or Seeley. But then, of course, it should do
with its racing pedigree. Brake-wise with the Brembo calipers front and rear, the Monza is running the best brakes of the era. Better still, parts are still readily available now, which is more than can be said for the likes of some of the anchors fitted to MVS for certain markets. Scarab brakes, in particular, are well known for being hard to overhaul and contemporary Grimecas aren’t the easiest to fettle either. Slowing the bike down from any speed is a doddle and there’s no need to strain muscles or tendons even when descending from serious speeds.
With loads of feel at either lever I swiftly forgot about them and got on with the serious business of hustling the bike around the lanes at indecent speeds. Which is not something you’d automatically do on a 1970s bike with a price tag of £56,000, but the MV just simply inspires confidence. For a bike made in such small numbers and effectively hand-built, it’s frankly so damn good and asks for so few compromises of its rider.
The gearbox is delicious in its action and the ratios are well spread. Doubtless some would find fault with the transmission simply because it isn’t Oriental in feel, but it’s way ahead of most other Latin bikes I’ve ridden. Only neutral felt just a little elusive on occasion.
The more I ride the bike the more impressed I become. Accepting that this is essentially a race bike on the public highway you’d expect it to demonstrate a raft of compromises – wrong! The seat is so ridiculously comfortable, the low bars aren’t wrist killers and both the stands are masterclasses in ergonomics, being so easy to use and operate. If I was being fussy I’d have a whinge