There are times when you say sod it, go for the fastest, nastiest piece of high tech equipment available. Worry about the cost later, just feel the speed and measure the smile. Although I'd had loads of kicks from the 600 replicas my experiences with the bigger, more exotic, stuff were largely limited. The odd leg-over on a GSXR, the occasional weekend on a begged and borrowed special (the girlfriend wasn't too amused at being swapped for the bike, but when needs must...) and a bright line of chatter on a few dealers on demo days. The flighty CBR 9 was the only one I'd experienced to any extent. Any thought that the UMG could blag anything decent too absurd to contemplate - it's always amusing to turn up at a dealers with the mag poking out of my pocket and clock the scowl.
I sort of knew what was on offer, then, but hadn't really been turned on enough to make the effort, to take the plunge into the world of 180mph speedsters. The appearance of the Yamaha R1, though, brought these vague longings into fine focus. I hadn't felt so much lust for a motorcycle since my early days when big British twins were still the premium tackle. Back then, it was always faintly amazing what a bit of lust could motivate by way of weekend and evening jobs to get the dosh together.
The first step was the obvious one of descending on the nearest Yamaha dealer's, demanding a test ride whilst showing an impressive array of credit cards to convince them of my financial standing. It was like taking candy off a baby. One Wednesday afternoon, the bike was wheeled out in all its glory. I knew I was on to a good thing just by the snarl the exhaust made. The riding position was a bit extreme but I contorted myself into the relatively svelte machine and hit on first gear with a far from high tech lurch. First lesson, the R1 had a rather abrupt clutch that needed a little bit of tenderness to stop the thing leaping forward like a randy race-horse chomping at the bit. But what the hell else could you expect when 150 horses was mixed with less than 400lbs of metal (at least when there weren't any fluids added)?
I couldn't resist the urge to let loose in first gear. all that very precious metal going wild, needing all my weight thrown forward to stop it turning cartwheels. The change snicked up lovingly to second - I soon learnt that the harder the bike was revved the slicker everything became. If anything, the bike appeared to hurtle forwards with even greater urgency but my fun and games were curtailed by an approaching junction. For a moment, I thought go with the flow, speed across it at some incredible velocity and rate of acceleration, dance between the gaps in the traffic - you have to understand that these bikes are reality altering and they make every ride like you're thoroughly intoxicated.
A brief blast on the motorway revealed that it was absurdly easy to put 150mph on the clock, the riding position beginning to make some kind of sense and the fairing dealing effectively with the fierce wind-blast. Stability was brilliantly reassuring, with none of the imminent feeling of extinction that the CBR sometimes exhibited, even if in reality it never came close to actually throwing the rider off the bike. Thing was, the R1 combined a better stability with fiercer acceleration, just about up to rotating eyeballs in the skull! I couldn't get enough of it.
Back at the dealers, they had a pile of finance forms ready for me to sign, having done a credit check (and probably life history) in my absence. Had I not clocked the prices shadow importers were offering in MCN and the cheap bank loans available I might've gone for it. I made my excuses and left. Only to grab MCN and make with the telephone. Several importers were sold out already but one had a couple left, about 700 notes less than the price the dealer quoted. The bank was so obliging about the loan, also over the phone, that had I any serious money there I would've taken it out - banks that give money away too easily are to be avoided. Right?
A plus B equals C, so a few days later I was in proud possession of a brand, spanking new R1. Can there be anything worse than having an immensely powerful motorcycle at your beck and call that has to be run in? 70 to 80mph in top gear was quite feasible so I ran it up and down the M4 a few times. It buzzed a bit and wasn't very comfortable but turned in 60mpg! As the engine loosened up, I was soon breaking through the ton, a speed at which the bike felt like it was just getting into its stride.
Streaming through a bend at this speed, I almost dropped a load when some idiot in a cage came roaring past about an inch from my handlebars. Don't know if it was my involuntary jerk or the Yamaha losing it, but the turbulence of the air made the bike shake its head - just once but at the ton that was enough to make me think twice about its famed handling. Didn't do it again, though, might just have been a touch of tightness in the steering head bearings before they wore into each other.
It was with great relief that I started revving the bike out. At relatively sane speeds the riding position made no sense, the Yam never feeling really right. The howling engine, spine buckling acceleration and mind warping top speed (about 190mph on the clock) transformed the whole nature of the beast. Totally addictive! Don't even bother with a test ride unless you've got the means to buy one, otherwise the yearning will do your mind in!
If the Yam represents the best in handling that the hyperbikes can offer, it doesn't mean it isn't subjected to the laws of physics. That is, it's dead easy to kill yourself if you go wild on the throttle in the corners. There's so much power, so much mad acceleration, that hitting on the throttle hard in second or third will have the bike going sideways almost before the throttle's made its move. I can imagine some relative novice giving it a handful, the next time he wake's up being in hospital! It took me a while to know how hard I could push it.
In the wet these limits are even more obvious. I've ridden bikes of a similar capacity that've been much more dangerous - a ZX-10 stays in the mind as being particularly suicidal - and the R1 always presented the possibility of an easy escape due to its pure lack of mass and excellent basic stability. But, again, the sheer excess of power allied to so little mass made for some fearsome slides when I forgot myself in the early days. It takes a couple of weeks to really become used to the way minor throttle movements result in excessive power being fed through the back wheel. Believe me, leaping off the R1 on to a CBR600, for instance, makes the latter feel incredibly slow! Moped status in one easy step.
One price paid for the R1's violent manners is truly shocking frugality. 25mpg was about par for the course. It wasn't just that the engine was particularly inefficient but that I kept playing with the throttle like some mad youth on his first motorcycle. Not helped any in the sanity stakes by the absolutely delicious howl the engine took on at the red-line in first, second and third. It was obvious that the bike had never been noise tested at such heady limits! My next door neighbour was way gone on rage when I returned after an early morning blast - this is the kind of bike that gets you out of bed at six o'clock! He reckoned I'd almost made his double-glazing disintegrate and wasn't too amused when I told him such early morning sorties were likely to be frequent.
If the throttle was treated with a modicum of respect the R1 would, in the bends, run rings around my mates variously highly rated tackle - tuned CBR600, new GSXR750 and GSXR1100. I was sometimes so far over that I thought I was going to scrape my helmet along the tarmac, but the tyres held and the bike felt just as stable as when upright. Couldn't fault it. Mind, the tyres were showing serious signs of wear after 1500 miles! 200 miles later the bike was sliding through bends rather than holding an almost stately line - basically just a fast way to an early grave or permanent NHS accommodation.
Before I could change the tyres disaster struck. The bike was nicked. I wasn't silly enough to leave it outside the Brixton gaff but had chiselled the steps down so that there was a ramp I could roar up at about 20mph. The handlebar ends just shaved through the doorway - it wasn't the kind of trip to try when slightly drunk! Anyway, the bike was parked relatively safely in my hallway. Or so I thought, until some little sods jemmied the door out of its frame and made off with my prized possession. It's at this point I should admit that due to the cumulative effect of past bad behaviour I couldn't get insurance for love nor money! Cry? I got pissed out of my head and woke up in the local tart's bedsit - must be reading too many of those Culler tales of debauchery!
That was no kind of consolation. To be absolutely honest, it wasn't the loss of money that had me down but the removal of the adrenaline and speed kicks. It was like walking around with half a ton on lead on my shoulders. I had a CX500 maggot as a despatch hack but all I really wanted to do to that heap was put a match in its petrol tank. Things had to get better...
Another demo day, another dealer. This time a GSXR750. A fierce little racer lacking sophistication but a mean spirited engine that could be used harder than the R1's for a lot of the time without the fear of being high-sided into oblivion. Though it lacked the massive kick of the rival Yamaha, I was used to playing with excessive power by then and found the GSXR a ball to string along on the throttle and gearbox - the latter much slicker than the Yamaha's. The dealer was offering a big discount and low finance which was mine for the taking. Couldn't afford it unless I defaulted on the R1's bank loan but what choice was there? Addictive bastards these latest hyperbikes.
Another running in session, up and down the M4 a couple of times. The cops laid traps along the way but I wasn't ready to push things and they went home disappointed, which was the only good thing about the running in chores - the GSXR's riding position made the R1 seem like a luxury tourer! I later found that it didn't make much sense until 150mph was on the clock! Even then, a 100 mile blast had me walking all funny and cursing the civilians who were wondering why someone so young had the posture of an eighty year old.
The lack of comfort was a constant irritation and limitation on my enjoyment of the bike. Made me go completely mad on the throttle, frying the tyres and discs when I realised I had to slow down from the resulting insane speeds or end up splattered on some cage that seemed to be going so slow it was moving backwards. The GSXR was turning in 35mpg even under such abuse, not a miser's dream but given the level of kicks more than acceptable.
Subjected to truly mad velocities, as much as 175mph on the clock, as many times a day as I could get away with (like the true addict, work no longer held any attraction) my mind underwent a curious transformation - the faster I went and the harder I pushed things the more time I seemed to have to react; time expanded to compensate for the rate at which the road was ate up. Frighteningly, 150mph soon felt like a mild amble and 175mph like the bike was just coming into its stride.
A few times I tried some mad lines through corners that on the R1 resulted in the mildest of shuffles, as if the bike was giving me a warning that it was time to back off. Pushed similarly, the GSXR began to shake its back end, but rather than scaring me silly, I merely compensated instinctively with a bit of body shuffle and got away with it! The curious reader might've formed the impression, that after more than 25 years of relatively sane biking, I was an accident waiting to happen; and they wouldn't be far wrong!
It went down like this. One clear, warmish day, on the M1 I wanted to see what the GSXR would really do. Strung the bike out in the gears, really fighting the engine into the red each time, then got down behind the far from protective fairing - you have to be jockey thin for it to make any kind of sense; I was almost there! 170mph came up without too much effort, but the slight headwind appeared to turn into a howling gale that slapped the front of the bike around. I thought best to ride through it; ground my teeth and tightened my grip. The engine sang with its vibration but the speedo moved inexorably further into the speedster's dream-zone.
183mph came up in the end, the bike way out of line by then, waltzing across a couple of lanes of carriageway as if the alloy frame was suffering from chronic fatigue. My muscles bulged with the effort to hold her on line and I had the odd inclination to just ride the bike right off the road. I was crouched down so low that I could barely see over the screen and when I clocked a white Sierra that was a dead ringer for a cop car up ahead I thought I'd had it.
The Suzuki had amazing brakes but with such a high velocity distance was covered even as speed was vaporised. We cruised past the white car at 110mph which had resolved itself into a civilian vehicle, the brakes still steaming off the speed. At 90mph the bars gave an almighty twitch for no sane reason that I could see. With the forks all wound up under the pressure of full-bore braking it's possible a minor bump upset the whole chassis, but I can't recall feeling anything.
I did the natural thing, let off the brakes. The bike went into an all out speed wobble that twisted the bars out of my hands. It all went a bit blurred after that, my next real moment of consciousness came when I picked myself up after a slide along the hard shoulder - luckily, the nearest and dearest fearing the worst had force-fitted me into a prime set of leathers that were ripped to shreds - much better than leaving my skin in a similar state.
The bike had managed that rarest of feats - written itself off without any damage to other vehicles. I didn't know, given the state of my insurance, if I should be relieved or gutted! Its plastic was scattered along the motorway, the broken frame and scraped off engine covers only needed a cursory glance to confirm the bike's demise. I made it up the embankment and into a field full of mad cows before the cops arrived. They probably assumed I'd been flattened into the tarmac by a couple of speeding artics and spent a couple of days valiantly searching for my remains.
Any sensible person, at this stage, would've opted for a C90, a nice little car or a holiday in the sun. Not this kid. After the shaking stopped I decided a CBR900 was the obvious solution to all of my problems. Having by then been blacklisted by all the banks and finance companies, there was the minor problem of finding the dosh. A gruelling month followed - despatch riding in the day, bar work in the evening and the odd bit of buying and selling of dodgy motorcycles. The only good thing to come out of all this effort was the confirmation that the CX was a marvellous workhorse that took all the hard running and neglect I could throw at it.
Four thousand notes richer, I decided the only solution to my speed lust was a used CBR900. This is not the kind of search to take up lightly, there being as many dodgy CBR900's and vendors as there are stars in the sky. Many were eliminated over the phone, with the usual questions about names in the logbook, frequency of oil changes and length of ownership. A couple seemed worth a visit but it took two weeks until I found one that wasn't crashed and hadn't been obviously abused - most CBR owners just ride their bikes into an early death, although the toughness of the motor means most make it to at least 50,000 miles.
Enter an early, 34000 mile CBR900. It desperately needed a new front tyre but I didn't have the dosh. Thus the bike was very light-headed in the corners, sliding and twitching all over the shop. Felt like a right old barge after the other bikes. All the more so because the engine was in fine fettle - lacking the ultimate punch of the R1 but needing more restraint than the GSXR, it felt like it was just run in, turning over with a fine wail out of the non-standard Motad 4-1 and barging though the 150mph barrier as if demanding to know what all the fuss was about. Only after a new set of Bridgestone's finest were fitted did the handling offer a semblance of stability but it never approached the sheer outrageous modernness of the R1's chassis. Compared to the GSXR, though, it was a paragon of virtue. Mind, newer CBR's have evolved over the years until the machinations of its strangely sectioned 16 inch front tyre but rarely intrude - it's unfair to compare a used and abused bike with new stuff but the UMG didn't heed my appeal for a new Honda in the interest of fairness.
The Honda was undoubtedly fast - 180mph on the clock before I decided that, for once, discretion was better than suicide. The R1 would have the legs on it in both acceleration and top speed; a GSXR750 would stay in sight at the price of a lot of hard work on the throttle and gearbox. The CBR was the sweetest of the bunch around 125mph, having the least annoying riding position and all its components blending into a whole that even the R1 couldn't, at times, match. But there was something lacking in the Honda, despite its outrageous excess of power and speed.
After a week in its saddle I was actually feeling bored! Dare I suggest it was too civilised, a trait entirely eradicated in the GSXR and you never really had time to notice anything other than the R1's exaggerated rate of acceleration. I wanted another R1. The other love of my life threatened separation, the parents howled in despair and all my friends tried to prevail upon my saner instincts. The family doctor was even consulted but went into a litany about the seriously ill needing his attention. Quite right, too.
A few more demo rides on the R1 were taken but when I came back all aglow with the speed the scowl on the dealer's face was worth framing - he'd obviously clocked the red flags when checking out my credit rating (worse than Indonesia's I'd gamble). A plus B didn't equal C any more! In the end word got around and I was barred from testing the R1 - just had to content myself with running a hand over its flanks before being rudely ejected by irate salesmen.
A few frightening moments when I tried antics I got away with on the R1 which turned the CBR into a lumbering carthorse, convinced me that I'd better get my life together before it was too late. The CBR was sold at a mild profit, the Maggot was kept running on a shoestring and pictures of the R1 lovingly caressed... Some day.
My final conclusion from this long ramble on speed is that the R1 should be avoided unless you can really afford one (and that includes the heavy insurance!). Both the GSXR750 and CBR900 are bad enough in their own right but the R1 has an added element of such total excess that to ride one is to fall in love, become totally addicted to the beast of forward momentum. Most Japanese fours ultimately become a little boring, edging you on to the next new model. The R1 redefines that experience! A brilliant speed beast that has no equals - I reckon the guys who stole mine must've had a test ride, been smitten so badly that they just had to get their mitts on one! Can't even blame them for their lust. I'm off to check into the nearest psychiatric ward before it all becomes too much for me!
Dick Lewis