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 have 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 have formed the impression, that after more than 25 years of
relatively sane biking, I was an accident waiting to happen; 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