Designs on Tomorrow’s New World

How we shape our lives today will impact on future generations, says designer Janice Kirkpatrick.

Design is a much bandied about word, misused, abused and almost entirely linked to clothes in some people’s minds. The reality is that design is a strong influence on the way we live, now and in the future. This is the argument behind a new series I’ve written for BBC2.

The six programmes each focus on a different subject, such as the chair or the body, to illustrate how design shapes our world. The series was shot on an extremely tight schedule between May and October last year in Britain, Japan, Iceland and America.

Filming and writing on the hoof for weeks on end is not glamorous. In America we did 20 interviews in 19 locations in 10 states over 28 days. It was exhausting, but the up side was meeting some great people, seeing some strange sights and hearing even stranger stories.

In Phoenix, Arizona, in a shopping centre so hot we were continually sprayed with a fine mist of water, I met Patti Moore, a gerontologist. In her twenties, Patti became frustrated with lack of information on the effects of ageing, so she decided to experience it first-hand and transformed herself into a woman 50 years older.

She wore glasses to impair her vision, clothes that restricted her movements and applied make-up to create the lines and wrinkles of old age. For two years Moore lived a double life in various American cities. Outside she was an old lady, her frailty largely ignored by others. Inside she was a young woman playing the role of observer.

She stopped when youths beat her up for no other reason other than she was old and dispensable. The attack left her injured but with a mission to make the world a better place for the elderly. She has since designed new products specifically for the older generation.

For the programme which explores the chair, I visited the Chillicothe Correctional Institution in Ohio where we filmed inmates manufacturing office chairs as part of a rehabilitation programme. I interviewed Tumbleson, an inmate specially selected by the prison to answer my list of approved questions. Unfortunately I couldn’t allude to his past history or current environment, including the daily grind of being baked in an institutional oven that stank of male sweat and playground manners. Stripping him of his personality was the ultimate punishment, it seems.

Guards and police departments use Tumbleson’s chairs, but he can’t. Inmates are denied chairs, because they are viewed by the authorities as a privilege, something which would express the owner’s individuality and taste.

My most poignant moment came the evening before I was due to interview Kari Stefansson, a biotechnologist and entrepreneur aiming to unlock the genetic causes of the world’s worst diseases by putting the medical records of Iceland’s population under the microscope. I met a woman with multiple sclerosis, who was profoundly opposed to the gene project. She feared if her illness was found to be inherited, her children would not get medical insurance. She, more than anyone else, summed up our addiction to improving the world without always being able to live with the consequences of our creativity.

This series has been a long time coming to fruition. In 1996, May Miller, executive producer from BBC Scotland, called to ask if I’d like to write it. May’s request came out of the blue; I’d done bits and pieces for BBC over the years but nothing as big as this.

I co-manage the design business Graven Images and do some writing, so being asked to commit my thoughts to paper in a structured way was okay, but it felt good to be doing something new with my well-worn skills. I borrowed old programme proposals to learn the shape and style and set to work drafting my proposal. In 1998, when I’d assumed the project was dead, the BBC called to say that they wanted to make my series the following year for transmission in 2000.

Early on I realised I didn’t want to write about “design” in the ordinary sense. I wanted to use the chance to tell stories about the explosion in creativity.

This process is common to all of us. It’s the thing that separates us from other animals. Our most common natural resource, creativity allows us to make civilisation from a wilderness of dust and rituals.

Designers are among a long list of alchemists, scientists, assorted royalty, witches, architects and industrialists: People who use their power to change the world. They manipulate others by creating a kind of huge stage set on which their subjects unconsciously play out the drama of their lives.

It’s hard to tell a complicated story in six half-hour bursts, so I decided to explain why the world is the shape it is by focusing on the chair, the word, the wheel, the home, the body and the patent.

Chairs are a good place to start because we don’t need chairs to sit down, but chairs reveal our particular place in the scheme of things. The chairman controls and the Queen rules from her throne. There’s a chair for everyone and every occasion.

James Dyson, inventor of the dual cyclone vacuum cleaner, tells us how patents allow ideas to be owned in another programme.

The wheel study explores our addiction to speed and how reinvention accelerates us into the future. A Tibetan monk and Neil Mackenzie, the superbike champion, talk about the technical and spiritual dimensions of these seemingly simple objects. In Virginia scientists are building a smart road where intelligent wheels will drive cars for us.

Our homes show how we’ve so many lifestyles to choose from that we’ve lost our sense of place. In our rush to consume products from other cultures we’ve almost forgotten what its like to be here and now.

I couldn’t ignore our bodies as they’re the starting point for almost everything we’ve ever made. Throughout history we’ve idealised and standardised our bodies then applied the resulting proportions and measurements to our city plans, buildings, tools and clothes. In our determination to find one size that fits everyone we’ve created a world that fits none of us perfectly.

Today we are struggling to reconcile our biological need for faster progress with the cataclysmic potential of our new inventions. The result is that we may have lost control of our most basic human birthrights: Our bodies and our creativity.

What will tomorrow’s world look like when we are all wholly owned subsidiaries of private companies and public institutions, when we’ve changed our bodies, the very things that gave it scale and proportion in the first place?

Hell’s Angel

Janice Kirkpatrick on how our words are ruled by the Roman Empire.

On the Monday October 3rd 1932 The Times newspaper dramatically transformed it’s character to counter the effect of radio as the new mass medium and retain its monopoly on news. Overnight the paper changed from Germanic dark pages and a Gothic heavy-metal masthead, to emerge blinking at the light white pages and spaces of the modern era. The Establishment had altered its accent.

Not everyone was happy with the new-look newspaper. Rumours tell of ructions in the Boardroom and in “Letters to the Editor” readers expressed their sorrow at the disappearance of their dear old friend, the gothic headline that was almost a part of the British constitution.

But the born-again broadsheet was a resounding success. It was endorsed by Sir William Lister, His Majesty’s oculist, who pronounced it easy on the eye. Voysey, the English architect and contemporary of Mackintosh, congratulated the paper on being so new and vibrant while Humphrey Milford, publisher of the Oxford University Press declared that he had never been able to comfortably read the old newspaper in the car, even while wearing his spectacles. But he could now easily read the re-designed paper without his spectacles as he drove to work, and what’s more, he blamed Morrison for this new state of affairs.

While Milford’s driving skills may have been somewhat quaint, the Morison in question was not: He was, and is, the most important British typographical expert of the twentieth century. Stanley Morison was typographical adviser to The Times from 1929, he was also an employee of Monotype Corporation who produced the typesetting technology that dominated the printing industries for most of the last century. He was a radical Englishman, a conscientious objector and one-time Marxist who believed that a more modern newspaper would attract a new, more democratic reader.

Morison created a typeface especially for the re-designed Times. It was an amalgamation of new ideas packaged within the familiar, incorruptible shape of classical stone-carved letters. His invention was lighter on the page and therefore easier on the eye than the chunky black letters it replaced. Simultaneously he increased the “word yield”; the number of letters that could be set on a page that was a vital factor in a business where words meant money. But the crucial factor in the outrageous success of his typeface was his ability to give it the voice of authority: That of Classical Rome whose integrated system of democracy, law, philosophy, architecture and the alphabet conquered the ancient world and continued to direct and shape British society.

Times New Roman, the face Morison created, was the most readable typeface of its day and remains the most widely used in the English-speaking world. It’s often bundled, in one version or another, with almost every personal computer on the market.

This package of old-style information presented in a new technological format created an outwardly anachronistic but stunningly effective double-act. It allowed ambitious corporations to assume the familiar and trustworthy shape of Roman letters in this, the most recent round in a six-thousand year long conspiracy to dominate the world, with words.

From writing’s humble origins in Mesopotamia to the vast empires of Monotype, Microsoft and Murdoch, powerful people have conspired to control our words and our world. Throughout history we learned that the ability to read and write gave the author “authority” over others who could not: The writer was right. The Word was a gift of god and The Law. If words were printed in black (ink) on white (paper) we assumed that they were the truth. Words even transcended death, becoming magical and conferring immortality on the author who could influence new generations from beyond the grave. Letters were the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end, intractable and eternal. Throughout history we used their power to cast spells, preach gospels, make laws, create and crack codes to win wars, we’ve founded type-foundries and the constitutions of companies and countries, and now technology has moved the plot into a new electronic dimension.

Since the invention of the typewriter, illiteracy has risen in direct proportion to the development of new writing technologies. As access to information increases the value of handwriting decreases and a growing technological underclass becomes disenfranchised. In business, handwriting is considered amateur, unprofessional and untrustworthy while we’re urged to value word-processed virtual reality over the real thing. In our rush to embrace a technological future we imprudently choose electronic information over hard-copy, even if it can be invisibly altered by the very corporations who guarantee its incorruptibility: Software is discredited unlike the simplicity of hardcopy or manuscripts. We even seem to trust the incontinent empires of Microsoft, AOL Time Warner and the US Government, or maybe we simply have no choice in a corporate world without borders.

With thanks to Stanley Morison our most popular typeface honours the honest stone-carved letters and monolithic culture of Classicism. But some things have changed, because in the twenty minutes or so it took a Roman stonemason to carve a single letter, tens of thousands of copies of a national newspaper now roll off a printing press and countless millions log-on to The Internet and World Wide Web.

The Romans may not have conquered the world the first time round but with the help of the communications supercompanies who control our words and the technologies and distribution to reach a wider audience, their classicist values—call it the Times New Roman Empire—could still triumph.

Bruno Ducati

Engineer and co-founder of the famous motorcycle marque.

Bruno Cavalieri Ducati must have died a proud man. He was an engineer and the last of three famous brothers who founded the famous Italian motorcycle marque that continues to lead World Superbikes in 2001.

Ducati’s story is centred in Bologna and spans 75 years. In 1925 the company, led by Bruno’s physicist brother, Adriano, made radio transmitters that connected Italy to the world. By the 1930s, it was the country’s second largest company, employing 11,000 people.

During the war, Ducati operated a policy of “No man and no machine goes to Germany” which saved valuable manufacturing plant, but not their Borgo Panigale factory. In 1946, after risking death as partisans, they produced their first moped, the popular Cucciolo, or Puppy, that offered affordable transportation. However, the drought of 1947 and ensuing power shortages pushed the company into debt, receivership, and eventual expropriation by the Italian state.

Since 1949 Ducati has continued to develop without the direct contribution of the Cavalieri Ducati family, but its survival and growth is attributed to their legacy and the post-war demand for a plethora of consumer goods including motorcycles, household appliances, and mechanical engineering.

Adriano worked for the US aerospace industry until his death in 1991 and Marcello continued as as an electro-mechanical engineer until his death in 1998. Bruno continued his career in the field of electro-mechanics, specialising in nuclear power, safety, and research. He obtained many patents.

Ducati, which was bought, and turned round, by American investors in 1996, is famous for its big twins, especially the Tamburini-designed 916/996, considered by many to be the most beautiful motorcycle ever created.

The UK has a special place in the Ducati story. In 1978 Mike Haliwood, a retired British racing legend with nine world motorcycle titles and a Formula 2 championship under his belt, returned to the Isle of Man TT races on a Ducati 900ss. He won the world championship.

The trend continued with Burnley’s own “king” Carl Fogarty, recently retired, securing four of Ducati’s five World Superbike championships between 1994 and 2000 and a total of 59 victories for the Italian manufacturer.

Scotland, too, can claim a unique relationship with Ducati. Before he retired from racing, Niall Mackenzie set the current lap record of 50.499 seconds at Knockhill on a GSE Racing INS Ducati 996 last year.

Saltire Magazine

Glasgow is an international City, a creative City. Historically it expressed it’s personality through designed products and architecture. These had inestimable cultural value and great monetary wealth, enabling the City to pay it’s way through it’s own resourcefulness, a product of it’s own brand of Scottish engineering and education, canny economics and socialist politics expressed in a world market.

The City communicated it’s character through ships and locomotives, through architecture and publishing. Glasgow was the ‘Workshop of the World’, “… the finest Victorian City in Britain”. The term ‘Clydebuilt’ was synonymous with enduring quality, craftsmanship and innovation. Glaswegian design was understood throughout the world and valued by every Citizen because it touched everyone, rich and poor, and was a necessary and intrinsic part of life.

The growth in Glasgow’s physical and international dimensions during the 18th and 19th Centuries still forms a major ideological component in the City’s culture. It’s alive in the mythology, language and values the City holds to be most precious. It runs much deeper than even those people who worked in the industries can ever convey.

However, the effect of our vigorous history has not been cumulative. We irresolutely paraded our successes, neutralised our mistakes and consequently failed to progress as quickly as we might have.

In the late 19th Century Thomson and Mackintosh heralded a new order. The democratic internationalism of the Modern Movement appealed to Glasgow’s easy conviviality and an acknowledged track record in Classicism encouraged the City to believe it could sustain a place in the brave new world of concrete and Helvetica.

As Modernism gathered momentum the City destroyed much of what was good. Glasgow began the most intensive building programme in Europe driven by central government in London and prompted by the arid architectural polemic of drier climates. Glasgow, with it’s international socialism, fell prey to International Modernism without pausing to reflect on the human consequences of it’s actions. Politicians didn’t realise that Glasgow’s socialism was a different brand from everyone else’s. Glaswegian culture was replaced by economics in the guise of social housing, it’s manufacturing industries allowed to decline in favour of the new service industries.

In 1993 we can comfortably say that Glasgow has come through it’s most traumatic phase in recent years. Our post-modern, post-recession politicians are terrified of making mistakes or even making decisions which might be construed as mistakes. It’s therefore no surprise that it’s the students and the housing associations who are producing the most innovative design in the City. Only a handful of under-funded manufacturers make products of quality; a sorry state of affairs for a culture dependant upon objects for the expression of it’s aspirations and it’s values.

Politicians and economists don’t understand that every culture needs objects to signify what it is and does, and more importantly, what it believes in. If the success of a culture is said to be measured by the objects it leaves behind what on earth will the archeologists make of us?

We now need to generate a new vision of our City instead of constantly regenerating an old one, or a bland one or an imported one. Charles McKean of the RIAS is correct to ask, “What is Glasgow?” It certainly isn’t clear anymore, we used to know what we were.

Glasgow is learning to it’s cost the price of undervaluing it’s architecture, art and design. Essentially the same process, they don’t exist in a vacuum, but are influenced by and articulate culture, economics and politics.

What we, the architects, artists and designers must now do, is build a new Glasgow founded on the experience of the past, the talent of the present and a brave new vision of the future.

Power Crazy

Janice Kirkpatrick’s favourite building generates a rush of energy and excitement.

If I go back far enough, my most enduring love is for the architecture of power generation and for all of the tunnelling, damming and the pioneering British engineering that goes with it.

It all started in the ’60s with the hum of a sub-station and a fascination with the little buildings that sang. My father took me to Pitlochry to show me how electricity was made. Instead he explained how fish ladders worked. I imagined that the water contained behind the dam boiled with fish like it did when they squeezed in their dozens through the glass viewing-chamber to be quickly counted on their journey to and from the sea. Electricity and salmon occupied the same compartment in my mind, fused together by their momentary exposure in a water-filled screen: a very Scottish marriage of physics and fish.

As I grew older I learned to look beyond the cauldron of fins and tails towards the smoothly engineered earthworks covered in swathes of manicured grass. I saw architecture that worked with nature, heralding a new era of enlightened industrialisation after more than a century spent scarring the landscape.

My favourite building is Tongland Power Station and dam built in 1934. It’s the largest of the six power stations, seven dams and two tunnels that form the Galloway hydro-electric scheme that runs from Carsphairn in the North to Kirkcudbright in the South, taking in the waters of Doon, Dee and Deugh and Lochs Ken, Doon and Clatteringshaws. Conceived by engineer William McLellan, it was the biggest hydroelectric scheme of its type in Britain. It was a functional model of the new spirit of improvement, formed to produce the clean, modern power that would help build a brave new world.

To find the now diminutive Tongland dam you take the A711 to Kirkcudbright and wait for the power station to appear. Its hygienic dimensions emerge suddenly from the tight waltz of closely set bends that follow the course of the River Dee. Adjacent to it sits a vast Vitrolite-green Aldo Rossi drum that I presume carries water within its matt dimensions. If you travel past the entrance and across the bridge, looking upstream, the view is equally shocking, revealing the sub-structure that allows the turbine hall to hang above the river bed, its smoothly rendered surface contrasting deliciously with the jagged stone and spluttering water beneath it. Someone somewhere had the pleasure of drawing this lovely thing.

I first visited the pale, high vaulted turbine hall on a school trip. I felt the familiar sub-sonic throb as I entered a building that was lined with the same cheap wooden panelling as the corridors in my school. I remember the grey enamelled casings for the control units and their black and white dials with solemn faces and Bakelite buttons. I was directed through a door and on to a balcony overhanging the turbine hall. I could distantly hear the man in the laboratory coat talking about inlet diameters and outlet values while, for the very first time, it struck me that a space could be beautiful, and exciting.

The great generating hall, set on a single floor with three massive turbines placed beneath the finely fenestrated ten metre tall windows, gave the impression of a church that had been constructed for a new era. It was painted in the palest blue and bathed in pure white light. I remember the sense of having all that heaviness and weight of water coursing menacingly beneath me with so much lightness high above.

Drive You Wild

These days it’s hard not to encounter scooter-mounted celebrities sporting obigatory anoraks, open-face helmets and wide grins. Jamie Oliver and the Gallagher boys cut a dash about town on their Vespas, so too does Patrick Cox with his Wannabee customised snakeskin models. XX even has a gold-plated special. I wonder who’ll be first with a diamond-studded Lambretta, Diesel StyleLab sports or a Gucci Titanium two-stroke.

‘Step-thrus’, as their called in the trade, are both efficient, a la mode and on the road. Luckily you can expect to pay around £2,500 for a new model that will give up to 100 miles between refills, and a full tank of petrol costs less than a fiver. This is just as well because Italian legends Vespa, Lambretta, and Grand Prix winning newcomer Aprilia, offer the best in branded accessories and leisure clothing that can be worn with impunity.

Scooters are much lighter and more agile than ‘proper’ motorbikes. They’re inexpensive to buy, run and insure. You won’t need a car parking space to own one because they can be kept indoors: most are beautiful enough to make a pleasing addition to your hallway, kitchen or livingroom, but do ask your Mother first.

You can ride anything under 125cc or 33bhp if you have a car license, undertake Compulsory Basic Training and display ‘L’ plates. You must wear a helmet and you’d be mad not to wear gloves, not least because Dainesse race gloves are to die for. But if you want your partner to go pillion you’ll have to sit your full motorcycle test—better to buy a matched pair of scoots and enjoy B road runs or country picnics.

Not only do scooters beat bikes in town, they allow you to arrive at meetings looking like a civilian rather than an extraterrestrial. There’s enough underseat space to stash a helmet, gloves and waterproof suit (not that you’ll need one as the there’s lots of wet-leg protection from the front faring. As Sir Terence will testify it’s easy to fit luggage racks and hooks. He should know because he’s carried furniture on the back of his Vespa!

Scooters first became sexy when Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn rode a Vespa in Roman Holiday. You too can get the look by joining 200,000 others and buying the latest generation of Piaggio’s Vespa ET2 50cc and 125cc two-strokers or ET4 125cc four-stroke model, first launched 53 years ago. If you’d like something bigger try their PX which comes in 125cc and 200cc. But make sure you get a copy of Vespa Vintage Catalogue of exclusive or rare spares and accessories which will make your scooter distinct from the 16 millon other little legends produced by this evergreen marque. Alternatively you can buy one of the many retro models produced by Italian or Japanese companies. Aprilia’a Habana Custom offers a US inspired alternative to the Italian tradition.

Even committed bikers grudgingly admit that scooters have some advantages over motorcycles. Many bikers also own scooters therefore it’s not unusual to the two groups to exchange a nod or wave rather than punches on Brighton Beach. If you’re sympathetic to the sportsbike aesthetic or simply prefer something more modern you need look no further than the Grand Prix paddock.

The ultimate accessory for every Superbike, Grand Prix and F1 racer is the scooter he uses to nip between luxury motorhome, pit lane and paddock. Renault, Aprilia, Honda and Yamaha all produce scooters with gorgeous race replica fuselage, motorcyle spec brakes and unbelievable suspension. This year’s most coveted model is Aprilia’s DI Tech which comes in 50cc and 125cc models. This scooter features innovate direct injection two-stroke technology that’s bred for the track and has super-low emissions. It’s ripping performance, maintenance and reliability promise to be a generation ahead of the competition.

It does seem that scooters, as with food, wine and furniture and clothing, are the latest in a long list of Continental imports to the UK. While they’ve obviously saved the best ’til last, I just can’t help but wonder who’ll be first with a diamond-studded DITECH or a Paul Smith two-stoke stripy scooter.

Devil worship

Getting my hands on the keys to this baby changed my life.

I grew up loving Lamborghini: the outspoken Italian marque that first appeared at the Turin Motor Show in 1963, one year after I was born.

Like Concorde, there is never anything average or politically correct about a Lamborghini. The cars are sexual and uncompromising, with shattering exhaust notes, astonishing horizontality and brazen good looks. In the ’60s and ’70s they were enjoyed by the rich and groovy. Twiggy’s manager cruised the King’s Road in a lime green Miura, the only car ever designed with eyelashes.

Ferruccio Lamborghini, the company’s founder, was a wealthy businessman who studied industrial arts in Bologna before amassing a fortune building tractors from scrap. He had a passion for powerful cars and, like many creatively arrogant Italians of his generation, disdained the opinions of others. Instead, he worked with a talented coterie who shared his singular vision of a definitive supercar.

Ferruccio employed Marcello Gandini to design his lineage of road legal race cars. Gandini became Bertone’s chief designer in 1965, replacing the celebrated Giugiaro. In 1971 he created a Lamborghini that made Pininfarina’s Ferrari Testarossa look like a fleet car—it was called the Countach.

While Lamborghini’s rampaging bull badge poked fun at Ferrari’s prancing horse in reality the car wasn’t all that it promised to be. It was gorgeous and powerful but handled like a bull, with heavy controls and capricious roadholding. It was the archetypal man’s car and Rod Stewart was a serial owner.

Twenty-eight years of incremental change ensured the Countach endured as the image of the definitive supercar. It remained special, not for what is actually was, but for what it could be and wanted to be, and for what it has now become. Today, under Audi’s stewardship, the legend has matured into the reengineered Lamborghini Diablo—the car Gandini always meant it to be.

The Diablo takes its signature silhouette from Gandini’s original Countach. It’s a triumph of styling; yesterday’s stealth bomber with a super-low profile, proto-diamond-cut fuselage, gull-winged doors and brutal sculptural beauty. A host of improvements including a revised chassis and suspension systems, ABS and a wider and lighter carbon body conspire with the new six litre V12 550bhp engine to recreate the supercar for the third millennium.

New technology has finally delivered the dream, civilising the bull without taming it. Driving the Diablo is an occasion in itself. In town it’s a shockingly usable crowd pleaser that won’t embarrass you by being difficult to reverse park. Stick the Diablo in second and take it anywhere, third gear takes you everywhere else, if you can afford the petrol. Inside, there’s no space for shopping or anything else, nor would you want there to be. It fills every part of your brain with more excitement than it’s immediately possible to comprehend. The four-wheel drive (Viscous Tracking in Lambo-lingo), delivers awesome stability as you feed it limitless helpings of creamy, cataclysmic power. On the open road the Diablo handles with calculated ferocity and huge enthusiasm. Like Robbie Williams it pulls in any gear. If you’re man enough to give it its head and shift the stick it will charge from 0–62 in 3.56 seconds before warping to an outrageous 205 mph accompanied by a soundtrack and price tag of biblical dimensions. I can’t stop grinning. The Diablo is the ultimate, unforgettable, infernal combustion experience. I could never get tired of this. It really is this good.

Now ravished by the new Diablo I feel rather desolate, although short of selling my flat, at £156,000 it’s beyond my reach. But everyone should have something absurd that they crave, a fabulous addiction or an unreasonable desire. Mine will remain a not-so-secret lifelong love affair with the exotic Italian beast I waited so long to drive.

Speed Freaks

The thing about cars is that we’ve come to expect too much from them. They have to be comfier than a Parker Knoll recliner, safe, economical, environmentally right-on and have racing stripes, oh, and it helps if they’re easy to drive. Unfortunately in trying to do everything adequately they end up doing nothing very well. In the automotive industries’ search for “one car that fits all” even the grand marques have been swayed by market forces, worshipping luggage space and economy over sheer emotional performance. Not so the Lotus Elise …

Don’t buy a Lotus Elise if you’re self-conscious because people will stare. The Elise looks like nothing else on the road. It’s an amalgamation of every classic mid-engined sports car you’ve ever dreamed of owning but it’s more practical, more affordable, probably better-made and a bigger performer than most others.

In fact, the Elise is too inexpensive to be a status symbol, but its single-minded engineering and styling ensure other motorists understand that you take your driving very seriously.

The exterior view is low and extreme; sculptured, air-scooped, vented and sexy from every angle. The front is unfeasibily short with E-type styled headlamps curving to meet the low screen with its single wiper-blade. The bonnet carries the unmistakable green and yellow Lotus badge and two meshed segments venting the radiator beneath. As one would expect it’s a cabriolet and comes with a detachable black fabric roof that’s easily removed and stowed in the tiny luggage compartment next to the engine. It’s cute from behind with neat twin chrome exhausts and a tiny integral spoiler, but don’t be deceived, it’s shod with fat low-profile tyres and branded alloys revealing sizable brake discs lurking behind.

The interior view is every bit as spare and practically stylish as the lightweight plastic exterior bodywork. While the Elise looks great from behind it expects the same of its driver, so if you don’t plan on getting intimate with your passenger you’ll have to drive alone. Occupants sit on the floor, hugged in leather and not much padding, and if you insist on keeping the roof on getting in and out is fun.

The interior is reminiscent of an aircraft cockpit with its beautiful aluminium floor and hi-tech glued construction (I think they made the wheels from glue too because it really sticks to the road.) You sit wedged within the chassis with your outside elbow leaning on the door-sill—this helps provide a snug bracing position against cornering forces, not that this car moves much even when cornering hard. Behind the leather-covered race steering wheel there’s a speedo, a rev counter and a fuel gauge. There’s excellent close-ratio transmission, a cigar-lighter, a heater, the possibility of a radio and, behind the seats, an elasticated bag for maps and snacks. There are no sun visors, navigational systems or electric windows—because this car is designed to be driven by people who adore driving.

The Elise, with its revvy 1,800cc Rover engine, demands you go around roundabouts two or three times and turn-off motorways to find A-Class corners. Ideally, you lose the roof because driving is best when you feel the rush of air above your head and smell the countryside as you fly past.

The Elise will do 0–60mph in 5.5 seconds, accelerating more quickly than all but supercars and sports bikes. It stops with startling efficiency and stability. This car isn’t about top-end speed but it’s peerless handling and driver feedback makes even moderate speeds feel thrilling and rewarding.

It’s tough to find a new car to get excited about, never mind one that’s made in the UK, and it’s a rare pleasure to find one that not only looks good but is fantastic to drive, even if there’s no room for the kids or the shopping. This is a racing car at heart, precision lightweight engineering for the serious aesthete. You’re rewarded for driving well, but rarely punished for getting things wrong. The Elise is designed to entertain you and one lucky friend so throw a toothbrush and some Calvins in the boot and go touring. If you can’t find real country roads, book the race track.

Handsome Devil

A few moments spent contemplating the dowdy fairings of the average police bike will tell you that many of BMW’s efforts at two-wheeled transport have been less than passionate affairs.

A BMW was the sensible choice for the older enthusiast who sought nothing more than a functional, safe ride, an ample seat for the missus and lots of practical hard plastic luggage. BMW made dull but worthy bikes for the aesthetically challenged, who enjoyed the benefits of filtering rush hour traffic while secretly craving the kind of safety, comfort and predictability you’d expect to find in a car. BMW bikes even provided stereo sound, heated handlebar grips, fog lights and shaft rather than chain drive. The company not only invented ABS braking, but was also the first to apply it to bikes—which didn’t endear them to the biking fraternity, who prefer to take the Fifth Amendment on when and how to slow down or stop.

Bikers believed BMW bikes were a triumph of function over fun and safety over stylish self-expression. They’re perfect for the police, who can’t be seen to be enjoying themselves as they ride about town in imperious twosomes, protected by the unappealing Teutonic badge of boredom.

No one accuses BMW of producing sexy bikes. So perhaps I could be forgiven for thinking my eyes were deceiving me when I saw the latest additions to the German manufacturer’s range; the R1150 R sport, and its big brother, the R1 150 RT tourer, which I had the unexpected pleasure of riding for one glorious weekend.

Nothing looks, sounds or feels quite like a Beemer. They’re powered by BMW’s signature Boxer engine; a flat twin with massive cylinder heads that protrude like giant metallic elbows from each side of the front fairing. Their beefy throb makes the bike rock gently from side to side when it’s standing still, while its 1130cc of big twin grunt gives it a capable, long-legged gait that’s very relaxed and deceptively fast, and feels a bit like wearing a pair of seven-league boots. Its car-style dash tells you which of the six gears you’re in, including the high-speed economy sixth, in which you can cover around 200 miles on one tank of petrol.

At 279kg (613lb), the R1 150 RT is one and a half times the weight of the average sports bike, but its low centre of gravity makes it easy to handle at slow speed. It’s perfect for waltzing deliciously around bends aided by the wide handlebars and a near-perfect front suspension, thanks to the new light-weight Telelever front forks. It’s such an unlikely configuration for a vehicle designed to duck, dive and lean at precarious angles, though, that I’m surprised it ever got off the drawing board. I’m also amazed that it actually works extremely well on the road.

Over the past few months, the company has been gradually rationalising and modernising its motorcycle product range. Out have gone the sorry silhouettes we’ve grown used to and in have come shiny metals, exotic alloys and scrumptious plastics—mine was sea blue shot through with iridescent mint! The bike press can’t quite believe that BMW has created such a handsome bike!

BMW’s head of design, Dave Robb, says the RT has “got more of a jaw to it, more profile. We think it’s very important that our motorcycles have character you can see from a distance, and it now has some movement forward visually that it didn’t have before.”

I found not only that the RT moved enthusiastically forward but also that I could actually see the road ahead, whereas my sports-biking friends could not. I was very happy astride this characterful rogue, watching flies ping off its adjustable electric windscreen—which is amazing, given that frankly I never thought I’d see the day when I would gladly swap my sportsbike for a tourer.

One thing’s for sure; this big Beemer has changed BMW’s position in the motorcycle market. And, after my fantastic weekend trial, I personally think that every girl should own a barrel-chested star like this one.

On Your Bike

Janice Kirkpatrick looks at accelerating innovation in the motorcycle industry.

If you’re a designer the odds are you’ll crash your motorcycle. Insurance statistics show that we belong to the professional group most likely to fall off our bikes. But we’re also among the most likely to climb on them in the first place. Research doesn’t explain why creative people have an affinity for two wheels, but it may have something to do with our enthusiasm for environmental concerns and our ability to spot an attractive idea when we see it.

It’s hardly surprising then, that it was a BMW motorcycle-riding, in-house designer who talked the manufacturer into producing the strange C1 car/bike hybrid, launched to a stunned automotive audience in May 2000.

Even committed non-drivers couldn’t have missed the launch of the new C1. Its image reverberated throughout the motor trade and entered the Sunday supplements before spreading to the style magazines. It’s a brave and iconoclastic package designed to persuade executive car drivers to leave the car at home, get out of the traffic and save the planet. The C1 is the first of a new generation of hybrid vehicles that the motor industry has spent years talking about, but never, until now, had the nerve to back.

While bike accidents are statistically decreasing, safety remains the reason most drivers cite for not travelling by motorcycle. BMW tackled this problem head-on by designing the C1 with passive safety features similar to those you’d find in a car; the C1 could almost be a section through a Land Rover Discovery, with a seatbelt, dashboard, windscreen wipers, two wheels and a roof. Like a car you sit in it, rather than on it. But unlike a motorcycle or scooter, where the rider relies on defensive riding and protective clothing, the C1 uses the vehicle’s frame and bodywork to absorb the impact of a crash, while restraining the rider with a protective cage. BMW is also keen to tell C1 owners not to buy costly protective leathers, or even a helmet (subject to legislation). Experienced motorcyclists feel BMW may be pushing their expectations of safety features to far, but with the cleanest petrol engine on the market and 97 miles on one gallon of petrol, who cares what they wear?

BMW is playing a long-term game to win riders by changing hardened attitudes to two-wheeled transport through the use of radical design-led solutions, and it may succeed. It has enjoyed record motorcycle sales for the past eight years and launched a more powerful version of the C1, the C1 200, in January this year.

Meanwhile, the rest of the automotive industry continues to manufacture more traditional products that continue to attract new riders, who are anxious to play a part in reducing traffic congestion, fuel costs and exhaust emissions. In February, the London Motorcycle and Scooter Show attracted 18,600 visitors, the majority of them novices or non-riders who placed scooters high on their list of “most wanted” vehicles.

Until now, nostalgia and speed were the two greatest reasons to take to two wheels. But today it’s easy to see why bike ownership is rapidly increasing: 1.1m people travel to London daily but only 12,000 use motorcycles or scooters. The average commute by car is 55 minutes, while journey times are 33 per cent less by motorcycle on a typical rural-urban commuter route. Research by the European Commission reveals that motorcycles and scooters consume between 55 per cent and 81 per cent less fuel than cars over the same journey, and riders don’t feel their blood pressure rise every time the traffic stops.

A snapshot of the London show reveals why some models stand out from the rest. For those not yet in-the-know, here’s a design guide to the motorcycle industry.

Japanese motorcycles are the industry tabloids, with huge market share and racy, tell-it-as-it-is names like Majesty, Hornet, Ninja, Drag Star and Bandit. They’re underpinned by superlative technology, build quality and performance, but often fail to satisfy in the styling stakes with their fag packet graphics and plasticky fairings. The Italian marques—Ducati, Aprillia, Benelli, Piaggio, Italjey and MV Agusta—are the colour supplements; emotional, desirable and often expensive, but with designer fairings and components, and graphics you’d be proud to be seen with. Apart from the odd Ducati Monster, the Italians prefer to describe themselves with numbers and letters. They use more flat colour in preference to decals because they’re more attractive and can afford to reveal their sexy contours. Aprillia and Ducati have even broken with tradition, adopting sans serif typography for their corporate identities, amid howls of protest. The Ducati marque is designed by New York consultancy Vignelli Associates.

BMW and Triumph have northern European broadsheet tendencies. BMW acknowledges, rather than celebrates, German engineering. It exhibits an innovative, if sensible approach to safety. Four recent additions to its range include the R1150RT tourer, the R1150R roadster, the R1200C Avantgarde cruiser and the K1200RS sports tourer, all available with the company’s own anti-lock braking system and a three-phase catalytic converter. BWM has a predilection for bland colours, constabulary graphics and a protestant attitude to styling, with the exception of the exuberant R1150GS off-roader.

Triumph is the British motorcycle industry’s own success story. It’s a grand old marque that’s been given a fresh lease of life, best represented by the new Daytona 955i, the best-selling flagship of the Triumph range since the original fuel-injected super-sports triple (then called the T595 Daytona) was launched in 1997. The T595 was the first Hinckley-built Triumph designed to complete directly with high performance machines from Japan and Italy, therefore hedging its bets and using both names and numbers to differentiate it’s products. Triumph is an industry legend and literal heavyweight. It’s retained its old script-styled marque, but funked up the finishes with gorgeous, bright, metallic colours. It continues to offer loyal riders a dose of macho nostalgia which underpins sports performance with a certain dignity, even if the bikes appear to get lighter and brighter with every new model.

Some of us are prepared to pay more for a heritage brand, so why not consider something a little further from home? Harley Davidson and Harley-powered Buell defy comparisons to the world of publishing and head straight for Hollywood. Harley is pure Walt Disney, peddling the romance of the open road. Owning one is about more than just owning a bike. It’s a lifestyle choice, complete with fringed leather bags and a host of accessories, including swimwear, aftershave and ceramic eagles.

But you can own a bit of two-wheeled history without living the American Dream. Piaggio manufactures the world’s best known and best selling scooter, the new generation 50cc Vespa ET4, as modelled by Natalie and Nicole Appleton of pop group All Saints at the London show (while boyband Five posed alongside their Ducati Monsters). Or you could go for something with a race pedigree, such as Ducati’s first retro bike, the MH 900e, inspired by British biking legend Mike Haliwood’s Isle of Man TT race-winning mount from 1978.

The UK is Europe’s fastest growing motorcycle market and there’s a two-wheeler for you, regardless of your age, class, sex or prejudice. Manufacturers are keen to ensure no niche is passed over in the two-wheeled revolution. Consequently, past models and marques are mined for every last trace of marketability, while new ranges are created to capture the hearts of new generations. Piaggio’s Gilera Ice is a new model targeted at “street kids—to make its rider stand out in a crowd”, while the Piaggio NRG MC3 has a “flat, footrest space that easily holds a large bag or rucksack of schoolbooks”.

In 2000 there was a 25 per cent increase in women taking Compulsory Basic Training (as a prelude to the full motorcycle license) with a similar increase expected in 2001. This means 25,000 women are currently shopping for two-wheeled transport and manufacturers are producing equipment aimed specifically at them.

The hot favourites for this year are Aprilia’s stylish and revolutionary Ditech and Benelli’s Tornado. The Ditech scooter has a radically new two-stroke, direct-injection engine that’s designed to cut fuel consumption and maintenance drastically while improving performance. Being a two-stroke (as opposed to a four-stroke) means it makes more power for less weight. It also looks fantastic and smells great.

Finally, a tip for the motorcycle to watch out for must be Benelli’s beautiful new Tornado 850 triple, which will be in showrooms later this year. But don’t take my word for it. Visit its website at www.tornadobenelli.com where you can see and hear the Tornado. You can even download an attractive screensaver. This will give you something to look at while you plan what you are going to fall off next.