Is it a scooter? Is it a motorcycle? Is it, in fact, the two-wheeled equivalent of Ford's classic Country Squire station wagon? This last isn't as ridiculous as it sounds.
The Mana, you see, is a rarity in motorcycling circles, an automatic transmissioned, full-sized two wheeler and, as befits anything with a slushbox, it needs a parking brake - another rarity in motorcycling - when it's stationary. Like ancient Fords, the Mana's is an external lever, located on the Aprilia's left side, right where a protruding carburetor might be placed were the Mana not fuel injected.
Further stressing the scooter or wagon allusion is that the hump that you see ahead of the seat is not the traditional petrol tank, but rather a storage area capable of stowing a medium-sized helmet or, as I used it for, a couple of sandwiches, a camera and a hardcover to wile away the hours while people-watching in trendy downtown Toronto. Add a rear top case and a couple of hard saddlebags and the Mana becomes a veritable pack mule.
Yet, despite its scooterish tendencies, the Mana looks and, save for the driveline, performs like a regular motorcycle. For one thing, it's powered by 839 cubic centimetres of the most iconic of Italian motorcycle engines, the 90-degree V-twin. There's more than enough horsepower to qualify the Mana as a sporting motorcycle, automatic transmission or not. It's also a full-sized motorcycle with an 800-millimetre seat height, sport-bike-sized 17 inch tires (120/70ZR17 in front and 180/55ZR17 in the rear) and three powerful disc brakes, the fronts gripped by robust four-piston calipers. The front fork is a sturdy inverted affair with 43mm stanchions and, even if the rear single shock doesn't feature a fancy rising-rate linkage, it is adjustable for spring preload (conveniently changed via a large rotary knob just under the seat) and rebound damping.
All of the above sounds pretty conventional for a modern motorcycle. Where the Mana differs radically is that, instead of the conventional six-speed gearbox/wet clutch combination, this Aprilia connects the V-twin's crankshaft to the rear chain drive via a continuously variable transmission (CVT). Essentially, the CVT is an infinitely variable, belt-driven transmission without any actual gears, its closest relative being the belt-driven drivetrains common to snowmobiles. There's no clutch and, were it not for the proclivities of motorcyclists for retaining the ability to manually-shift gears, the Mana wouldn't have a gearshift lever either. As it stands, one can shift the Mana manually, but it's deception, with the seven gears just being artificial "steps" in the automatic's operation.
One can, however, choose between three basic modes for the transmission's operation. "Rain" keeps the revs low to minimise torque to the rear wheel when the road might be slippery. Throttle response is therefore muted. "Sport" takes the opposite approach, keeping the engine revving higher at all times so that there's always a surfeit of power. Response is much more immediate, but the Mana always feels nervous in the sport mode with the engine spinning needlessly high and more vibration reaching the handlebar.
The "Touring" mode neatly splits the difference. When cruising, the revs are kept low for a relaxed, vibe-free ride, yet when the throttle is pinned, the CVT lets the big twin rev as hard as it does in the sport mode. Other than sampling the two others for testing purposes, I just left the trannie in touring mode all the time. Ditto for the handlebar mounted paddle shifter than "manually" shifted gears. After trying it a few times, I simply slipped the CVT into automatic and left it there.
Save for the dispensing of the manual transmission, the Mana feels every bit the grown-up motorcycle. The handling is Italian-bike secure, save with a tendency to "fall in" at low speeds. Otherwise, the suspension is extremely well balanced and the steering very precise. The brakes are, quite literally, superbike ready with power to spare. They also enjoy the added safety of an anti-lock system, one more effective, yet unobtrusive, way that Aprilia makes the Mana more convenient and safe without sacrificing performance.
As it is Italian, there are a few oddities. The airbox, for instance, is decidedly odd looking, resembling like a rural farmland mailbox, albeit without the faded primer paint. It's also perched right above the front cylinder, making the intake tract seem rather convoluted. Perhaps, I'm just missing the avante garde styling, but it doesn't seem as integrated into the Mana's lines as one would expect from an Italian crafted motorcycle.
The other price to be paid for the Mana's Italian heritage is, quite literally, the price. It's not exactly cheap, but on the other hand it is significantly cheaper than the amount Honda wants for the oddly-styled DN-01, the only other full-sized motorcycles to shares a true automatic transmission. For those looking for the easiest entry to full-sized motorcycling, the Mana should be at the top of your list.
