Hunger gnawed at our bellies, time to forage for food. Fruitlessly we searched the locale for some grub, in the end I gave up and returned to the hotel. I couldn't be arsed to be perfectly honest, I just wanted to relax. Phil and Fast were a bit more tenacious and they re-appeared about an hour later with some decidedly dodgy looking chinese food.
The following day brought the next stage of the journey. We were heading for a little suburb of Barcelona called El Masnou to hook up with one of my old school friends who was working in Spain.
This meant traversing the entire breadth of Southern France, nipping across the border at Perpignon and into Spain. One long straight motorway blast, a bit boring but easily done in a day. We set off about 9.00am on yet another awesome day of sunshine and blue skies.
Perhaps half way across the basement of France around Montpelier in steady motorway cruise mode I noticed a phalanx of riders occupying two lanes glinting up ahead. As we closed up to them I noticed they were all wearing colours and riding American steel at about 80mph in perfect formation. These guys were flying the colours of a French Hells Angels chapter. I slowed the pace and gave these guys room and respect, not interfering with their road pace. They rode as one entity, all chrome, open pipes, aped and raked to impress. It was the first time the TL road train had been out thundered.
The thing that puzzled me was their immaculate turn out. The bikes I could understand. A man must have pride in his machine, the cleaner the faster etc. Apart from Phil, Eddie and I would be riding immaculate machines, not mud caked fly spattered missiles. Most motorcyclists unconciously crave that head turning cred. It's a statement of pride. individuality, freedom and passion for life and thrills. (Well for me anyway). We were however on a mileage mission and had no room or time for cleaning products, just spare oil and chain lube.
The Angels themselves were clean and I mean clean, their apparal looked new, boots were polished, cut offs could have been bought that day, their colours shone. As a teenager I had read everything I could find on the 1%ers, the outlaw bikers with names like Terry The Tramp, Mouldy Marvin and Larry the Lamb.
The myth was grubbiness and filthy beards, cruddy originals and hell raising, raping, pillaging, gun running and drug taking like modern day Vikings. This may have been true in the early days (and if you read about the North American policing, Yves Lavigne for instance it's still true today if you choose to believe them), when the Angels gained notoriety via the Rolling Stones gig at Altamont (I think) and through the pages of Gonzo Journalist Hunter S. Thompsons 'Hells Angels' (which I must have read at least half a dozen times by now). However it is said that it takes ten years to gain a reputation and five minutes to lose one. I think in the case of the Angels and to a similar extent similar clubs it took five minutes to gain their rep (fair or not - you decide) and perhaps twenty years to lose it. Sonny Barger dipped into mainstream acceptance for the fast burgeoning global 'brand' when he carried the Olympian eternal flame part of the Journey to the Atlanta Olympics. I remember seeing that on the box and thinking Yes, how cool is that.
We slipped past and gently increased our velocity. It was shortly after that I managed to max the TLR. It was a three laner, perfect visibility, no slip roads and bugger all traffic to speak of. It had to be done at least once. From 100 or so I wound the thing up in top until the dials showed just over 170mph, there was no twist left in the throttle. With no luggage and and revving it through the gears perhaps I might have squeezed a little more out of it but it was exhilerating enough, the bike felt like it was about to take off, the thump of the V-twin heart pounded beneath me. Fixed things started to blur in my personal tunnel of speed.
For me this is what it's all about, it would have been great to sustain this for more than a couple of miles but the wind blast was threatening to snap my neck and it was drinking gas like a stranded man in a desert with a terrible thirst. so it was back down to 130 ish and a weather eye for the next fuel stop.
Thursday 20 December 2007
Thursday 13 December 2007
NEC Show
Well the 2007 NEC international Motorcycle show has swept by for another year and in my opinion was the best for a long time. The list of attractions were almost too much to fit in in just one day.
The main reason for attending was to view the new models and there was a fair few of them.
Honda showed off their new brutish looking streetfighter the CB1000R, a compact muscle bike featuring a single sided swing arm, rakish headlight nacelle fairing assembly, very nice wheels and a functional and not bad looking box section looking angular GP stubby esque exhaust.
The new for 2008 Fireblade didn't look half as hideous as in the pictures also featuring a side slung stubby exhaust 175 horses weighing in at a relatively heavy 199kg. I'd have one!Most of the rest of the range appeared to be the 'same but different' with updates. Honda hope to grab some of the middle price bracket sensible 600 market with the new CBF600abs.
Other Japanese notables were the all new R6 Yamaha which is a stunning looking sports bike which will no doubt be a bloody misssile and move the class forward just a little more, Yamaha also introduce the equally stunning YZF-R125 this little thing will steal sales from the the Honda CBR125 with ease if priced right, for me the best bike in its class, perfect bike for younger brothers to emulate the sports bike antics of their older siblings. Not quite sure about their new V-Max concept, you can see the lines echoing the previous seminal superbike and it is very Judge Dredd, Yamaha are a bit coy about when or if in terms of release date. Suzuki's B-King is reality of course but debatable in terms of styling cues for me, those exhausts are just hideous and in my opinion outextreme the MT-01 which is also an odd looking animal.
Kawasaki have pulled off a master Stroke I reckon with the release of their new sports 250, styled to turn heads with a 250cc parallel twin engine, cheap and reliable spec and bang on the 33bhp limit for newbies, priced right this could sell in numbers.
TheZX10R has always been an awesome bike in terms of performance but the twin pipers were definitely the ugly sister in comparison to the earlier C models and the '08 model has been delivered with a facelift, the mirror/indicators look a bit odd but they showed the bike with the mini slimline accessories kit fitted which was much better. Inevitably the zorst was a bulbous neccesity and the pillion area was ....well not really there. The new Blade or this 10 would be my choice for a litre superbike, based on the assumption that I don't win many thousands of pounds so therefore will not be in a position to buy either the magnificent Desmoseidieci, 1098 or the very svelte KTM 1180 LC8.
Triumph had no real new models but their Rocket 111 in touring kit looked awesome, more purposeful looking than the equivalent Harley and less complicated in the bristling with gizmo's Goldwing which features a sat nav and a billion other buttons, it's a gizmo geek bike whereas the Triumph is a bikers bike which has soul. God knows what mind bending drugs the Victory designers were on when they created the 'Victory 'Vision' which has been introduced to this huge litre super tourer class. Marketed as the New American V - twin, on this occasion I'd rather have the old one and swap quids for a Harley if American metal was my penchant. It's a truly weird, admittedly brave and futuristic design, but I think more people were just amazed at it rather than genuinely interested.
On the American side of things, the Harley stand was naturally flash but most of the bikes just looked like tweaked former models which is really what Harley are all about, they have the essential sales ingredientsand just dress them up in different clothes it seems to me. I have to be honest at this point I have never slung a leg over one so I should reserve judgement until I have. And the day cometh. second week in January I will hopefully be riding an XL1200 Nightster so will post my thoughts when its been handed back to it's rightful owners and I've thawed out. I'm actually really looking forward to it.
The new Buells are quirky looking things and the new water cooled offering was no different, the top fairing was wider than a south London market Trader. I'm sure it is very efficient but not sure if it would fit through the garage door it seemed that wide.
I had a pew on the HP megamoto and again very quirky and highly efficient without a doubt but those sticky out pots just don't feel right to me, give me a Hypermotard Duke or preferably a KTM Supermotard R please. Their GS800 promises to further roll out the appeal of the range created almost single handedly by Boorman and McGregor. Benelli showed their entire range. I'm undecided with these beasts, the Tornado looks good but you rarely see one on the road and the rest of the range look well finished but not quite italian. I reckon you can see a Chinese influence in there somewhere especially with reference to the Tre's radiator set up, they were hideous looking, the brand has a modular approach to their very slowly expanding model range. I'm sure they are all great bikes but the proof of the pudding is the buying public.
A little gem amongst the diadem of mainstream manufacturers was the new Megelli range of chinese manufactured machines overseen by a new British engineering concern, Priced at under 2K I'm convinced you'll be seeing some of these on the road next year as they crowd the Gilera DNA sector.
Carole Nash's stand is a must most years but I was left a little disappointed, for sure all the machines displayed were lavished by pride and joy but some how I was a little disappointed, the winner of the Carole Nash award was a most bizarre, It was almost a mechanical animal rather than a bike, the oddest lowrider I have ever seen and not something I would ever want to ride.
The stalls looked busy and the crowd contained noticeably more women than previous years which reflects the touted figures of increasing amounts of female license holders.
Well done to the organizers I reckon. loads to see and plenty to do. Visitor figures I believe are up on last year and loads of new kit to ride.
Chapter 13 - From Mugello to Florence to Pisa to Monaco to Nice
The roads were crap, spiralling down to city level and the harbour basin, broken up, crossbanded, dusty, gravelly and bumpy (must have played havoc with the herds of supercars garaged in the city). There is a lot of money floating about in this tax haven, you'd think they'd spend some on the roads. perhaps they just wanted to put off auslanders entering their sheltered kingdom, (or they all travelled by helicopter)!
We parked up on the sea front/harbour section, stretched our limbs and grinned at each other. What the fuck were we going to do now that we were here? Late afternoon was starting to diffuse into early evening. We grabbed a beer to wash the dust from our parched throats, had a quick mooch and then decided to split and find a bed for net.
The city-state/province/taxhaven, whatever its official title was as big as the eye could see looking up from sea level, but that was it , no bigger, most of it piled higgledy piggledy strewn across the hillside.We had arrived just 10 days or so after the F1 Grand prix. The superstructure of the stands were still in the process of being dismantled and the road itself had a skirt of fine rubber beads on it's perimeter, scrubbed off the tyres of the F1 guys cars. Those F1 guys know how to lay a bit of rubber alright, though usually at Monace they play follow the leader all race.
We checked the boats out in the harbour, all posh stuff with posh people on board wearing posh jumpers draped over their posh shoulders wearing posh looking shoes. I felt like a hobo.It didn't really exude a 'kicking' atmos, we smoked and then we left, proceeding out of the city via a massive underpass, heading for Nice, the nearest place likely to have a cheap hotel to crash at. We would hole up before heading for Barcelona in the morning.
It gradually got darker until full night was upon us, brightened by Nice's urban lampware. We hit the city and drove around aimlessly trying to find an elusive Novotel or similar.In the end we waylaid a moped wielding pizza delivery boy and asked for directions, he promptly said follow him and away he buzzed up the street with us in hot pursuit, he knew where he was going, we didn't, he didn't stop, drove flat out and had no indicators, naturally at 15 or so he was invincible, paying little or no heed, impervious to the urban traffic, we were hard pressed to keep with him. Suddenly he stopped (no brakelights either), gestured and Lo before us a suitable hotel. Thank fuck for that it was getting late, we were tired and hungry and had ridden from Mugello to Florence to Pisa up the bay of Genoa to here in about 8 hours.
We thanked moped street urchin and went for it. It was a fully automated rest site, even the girl behind the counter did a good impression of an automaton, taking our credit card details with robotic indifference, dishing out the relevant keys and info with none of the Gallic charm expected. Still Bollox! We were in and had a bed for the night, just the food scenario to sort. This was France, part of Europe there must be millions of restaurants open 24/7
We parked up on the sea front/harbour section, stretched our limbs and grinned at each other. What the fuck were we going to do now that we were here? Late afternoon was starting to diffuse into early evening. We grabbed a beer to wash the dust from our parched throats, had a quick mooch and then decided to split and find a bed for net.
The city-state/province/taxhaven, whatever its official title was as big as the eye could see looking up from sea level, but that was it , no bigger, most of it piled higgledy piggledy strewn across the hillside.We had arrived just 10 days or so after the F1 Grand prix. The superstructure of the stands were still in the process of being dismantled and the road itself had a skirt of fine rubber beads on it's perimeter, scrubbed off the tyres of the F1 guys cars. Those F1 guys know how to lay a bit of rubber alright, though usually at Monace they play follow the leader all race.
We checked the boats out in the harbour, all posh stuff with posh people on board wearing posh jumpers draped over their posh shoulders wearing posh looking shoes. I felt like a hobo.It didn't really exude a 'kicking' atmos, we smoked and then we left, proceeding out of the city via a massive underpass, heading for Nice, the nearest place likely to have a cheap hotel to crash at. We would hole up before heading for Barcelona in the morning.
It gradually got darker until full night was upon us, brightened by Nice's urban lampware. We hit the city and drove around aimlessly trying to find an elusive Novotel or similar.In the end we waylaid a moped wielding pizza delivery boy and asked for directions, he promptly said follow him and away he buzzed up the street with us in hot pursuit, he knew where he was going, we didn't, he didn't stop, drove flat out and had no indicators, naturally at 15 or so he was invincible, paying little or no heed, impervious to the urban traffic, we were hard pressed to keep with him. Suddenly he stopped (no brakelights either), gestured and Lo before us a suitable hotel. Thank fuck for that it was getting late, we were tired and hungry and had ridden from Mugello to Florence to Pisa up the bay of Genoa to here in about 8 hours.
We thanked moped street urchin and went for it. It was a fully automated rest site, even the girl behind the counter did a good impression of an automaton, taking our credit card details with robotic indifference, dishing out the relevant keys and info with none of the Gallic charm expected. Still Bollox! We were in and had a bed for the night, just the food scenario to sort. This was France, part of Europe there must be millions of restaurants open 24/7
Wednesday 28 November 2007
Chapter 12- Jimmy Bond and handlebar mounted machine guns
The last tunnel before the turn off to Monaco nearly claimed me. It was a long one, usual dual carraigeway, but no visible light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, obviously had curved air in it somewhere.
Rashly whilst about halfway through I blasted past a car which had overtaken some other to take up my airspace. I took them on the outside of the outside lane and squeezed past just in time to see the tunnel turn sharply to the left decreasing into a single carraigeway with with roadsigns telling me what was what.
Madly I pawed at my visor to get some extra light on board noticing immediately a car in front with its reds on and a huge trail of detritus on my right with a wall looming ahead as the radius decreased.
This all happened in a matter of a few seconds . Survival is a powerful instinct, turbo boosting the system with adrenaline. I must have missed the car in front by mere inches as I cranked the bike into the turn cutting them up whilst madly trying not to let the bike drift into the deadly crap at the side of the road.
God is good and God is great and I was a convert briefly that day, the Suzuki may have been forged in Hell but the great shining one gave it's pilot another chance (obviously not my time) and I thanked him aloud in the privacy of my crash helmet.
I exited the tunnel more than a little embarrased at my stupidity, bathed in fear sweat, but alive and kicking. There was a pull in just past the tunnel exit right underneath a repeat of the road sign I had noticed but didn't actually read. Fast Ed and Phil landed beside me, they said nothing, perhaps they hadn't seen. It was fortunate that we did stop because the road sign said exit for Monaco, take the right fork, we took it at a much reduced pace and headed for the city state. We'd covered about 300 miles since 2pm. Not bad going.
We had to wind down the road from the top of the coastline into Monaco itself. It was the sort of road you see on telly when James Bond is being chased by evil hoods with thicj eastern European accents. (if they talked at all). In the blacked out sedan spraying bullets ahead of them like badly aimed confetti. (none of these arch crim henchmen ever got a serious hit on Jimbo though).
I was mulling this as we negotiated the bends with low parapet walls, thinking this surely must have been a location for at least one of Broccoli's films. All we needed was a blond blue eyed assasin powering a modified XT equipped with handlebar mounted machine guns chasing us or a couple of skiers zooming overhead clad in radar reflective cat suits and mirror shades dropping grenades as they soared over our heads in a tight crouch. Lastly the scene would have not been complete without a helicopter appearing out of the blue from behind a screen of trees revealing another blue eyed Aryan assasin clone with sniper rifle hanging out the cabin. Call me theatrical or melodramatic but that's what it reminded me of, when....... (absolutely bullshit free), I dropped the bike through the high gears hooking third to take the turn only going 40 odd but close to one of those silly parapet walls (how these things would ever stop a serious crash from plumetting over the edge is a mystery) when a frigging helicopter burst into view ascending from out of sight below into frame slap bang in front of me. When was the searing lead going to bite into my head? I stared into the evil insect bubble of the cockpit straight at the pilot as the slow mo blades chopped the air. It increased height and left the scene as swiftly as it had appeared. My second reprieve of the day.
Rashly whilst about halfway through I blasted past a car which had overtaken some other to take up my airspace. I took them on the outside of the outside lane and squeezed past just in time to see the tunnel turn sharply to the left decreasing into a single carraigeway with with roadsigns telling me what was what.
Madly I pawed at my visor to get some extra light on board noticing immediately a car in front with its reds on and a huge trail of detritus on my right with a wall looming ahead as the radius decreased.
This all happened in a matter of a few seconds . Survival is a powerful instinct, turbo boosting the system with adrenaline. I must have missed the car in front by mere inches as I cranked the bike into the turn cutting them up whilst madly trying not to let the bike drift into the deadly crap at the side of the road.
God is good and God is great and I was a convert briefly that day, the Suzuki may have been forged in Hell but the great shining one gave it's pilot another chance (obviously not my time) and I thanked him aloud in the privacy of my crash helmet.
I exited the tunnel more than a little embarrased at my stupidity, bathed in fear sweat, but alive and kicking. There was a pull in just past the tunnel exit right underneath a repeat of the road sign I had noticed but didn't actually read. Fast Ed and Phil landed beside me, they said nothing, perhaps they hadn't seen. It was fortunate that we did stop because the road sign said exit for Monaco, take the right fork, we took it at a much reduced pace and headed for the city state. We'd covered about 300 miles since 2pm. Not bad going.
We had to wind down the road from the top of the coastline into Monaco itself. It was the sort of road you see on telly when James Bond is being chased by evil hoods with thicj eastern European accents. (if they talked at all). In the blacked out sedan spraying bullets ahead of them like badly aimed confetti. (none of these arch crim henchmen ever got a serious hit on Jimbo though).
I was mulling this as we negotiated the bends with low parapet walls, thinking this surely must have been a location for at least one of Broccoli's films. All we needed was a blond blue eyed assasin powering a modified XT equipped with handlebar mounted machine guns chasing us or a couple of skiers zooming overhead clad in radar reflective cat suits and mirror shades dropping grenades as they soared over our heads in a tight crouch. Lastly the scene would have not been complete without a helicopter appearing out of the blue from behind a screen of trees revealing another blue eyed Aryan assasin clone with sniper rifle hanging out the cabin. Call me theatrical or melodramatic but that's what it reminded me of, when....... (absolutely bullshit free), I dropped the bike through the high gears hooking third to take the turn only going 40 odd but close to one of those silly parapet walls (how these things would ever stop a serious crash from plumetting over the edge is a mystery) when a frigging helicopter burst into view ascending from out of sight below into frame slap bang in front of me. When was the searing lead going to bite into my head? I stared into the evil insect bubble of the cockpit straight at the pilot as the slow mo blades chopped the air. It increased height and left the scene as swiftly as it had appeared. My second reprieve of the day.
Tuesday 27 November 2007
Hellenic Experiences
In the words of Justin Sullivan, 'get me out of this place'. Time for a short break, time for a young (at heart) brave to steal away, look at a different sky, a different view.
Leaving the goats at home my wife and I embarked on a swift long weekend in Athens.The weekend kicked off after work with a visit to Brighton to see the tribal kings of politico poetic punk/rock/folk New Model Army who were touring again having released a new album entitled 'High' (which I think is the best album since Thunder and Consolation).
I never tire of seeing these guys, they have soul, passion and anger all rolled into one and for me are an archetype English band. Keep up the good work lads.
Sweating, hungry, tired and in need of a beer we made our way to the airport about 1amI can't stand sitting on an airplane twiddling my thumbs and as one is effectively captive and at the mercy of the elements and the pilot accompanied by cabin crew of debatable intellect (not to mention sexuality, which is not a problem but more an affirmation of the truism of some stereotypes) I try to hide my head in a book and hope they leave me alone, also its not often I have two or three hours to do nothing.
I picked up 'The mammoth book of bikers' which is about 400 pages in length and is a effectively a case study on outlaw bikers or 1%ers, starting with the Hollister 'riots' which spawned the 'Wild One' with Brando and his silly hat through to the present day view of outlaw clubs as a criminal organization (according to the cops) 40 different stories, reports and columns from those who have been involved in the scene from bikers, wannabee's, cops, et al. including Hunter S Thompson who wrote possible the seminal work entitled simply Hells Angels, also mentioned in Sonny Bargers autobiography (though not in a good light, which is good really as sometime the romanticism of living on the edge of society masks the reality of the actual scenario)
Damn good read and gives one a historical timeline.Classic club names such as 'The Boozefighters MC' naturally the HA, Outlaws, Bandido's etc There's more to the picture than meets the eye and it highlights the pallid and insubstantial efforts by the so called outlaw riders out there today who are mere weekend warriors on polished donkeys who don't shave on a Friday morning so that they can look suitably 'unkempt' at the weekend. (owning a Harley, looking mean and riding at the weekends doesn't automatically give you entrance to this exclusive club neccesarily in comparison to some of the guys and activities detailed in the book, Though to my mind H-D themselves don't mind one little bit, producing 'choppers' as well as 'garbage wagons').
One thing that struck me was the mention that some clubs are allowing members to ride non H-D machines. I was under the impression that this 'law' was set in stone, a jingoistic and nationalist rule which hearkened back to the early days. Even Barger himself admits (reluctantly I would think) that the ST1100 Pan European is a better bike than his Road King, though he still remains loyal to the chosen marque. Still You can't fight the inexorable tide of change.
Naturally you can make up your own minds about it all which is healthy, Heartily reccommend it. Good insight for us 'citizens'.
Anyway Athens is full of bikes, though not neccesarily bikers, everyone is riding them and generally in the evening two up, no sportsbikes, cruisers, tourers just shit loads of Varadero's, V-Stroms, XTX's, KTM's a fair few Triumph Tigers and swarms of four stroke c90 type machines virtually all sporting a power pipe making them sound like 600cc singles as they burr past flat out with all manner of stuff carried behind and in front of the predominantly non helmeted riders.
I've seen bikers in Milan and thought they were Death wish heroes but they are tame to some of the antics I saw on the Athenian streets. Still at least they get the helmet choice, it is after all apparently the seat, heart and the starting base of democracy.
The Ouzo was cheap and local beer Mythos is 5%, kebabs are tasty but the ruins are err... ruinous, most left to the imagination rather than a startling amount of info with which one can whet the appetite on. One day I think a bike trip to Southern Italy, across the Aegean sea via ferry and into Greece and back home the long way, through the Balkans would be a great little number. Hard to read a book but a definite righteous roadtrip.
Leaving the goats at home my wife and I embarked on a swift long weekend in Athens.The weekend kicked off after work with a visit to Brighton to see the tribal kings of politico poetic punk/rock/folk New Model Army who were touring again having released a new album entitled 'High' (which I think is the best album since Thunder and Consolation).
I never tire of seeing these guys, they have soul, passion and anger all rolled into one and for me are an archetype English band. Keep up the good work lads.
Sweating, hungry, tired and in need of a beer we made our way to the airport about 1amI can't stand sitting on an airplane twiddling my thumbs and as one is effectively captive and at the mercy of the elements and the pilot accompanied by cabin crew of debatable intellect (not to mention sexuality, which is not a problem but more an affirmation of the truism of some stereotypes) I try to hide my head in a book and hope they leave me alone, also its not often I have two or three hours to do nothing.
I picked up 'The mammoth book of bikers' which is about 400 pages in length and is a effectively a case study on outlaw bikers or 1%ers, starting with the Hollister 'riots' which spawned the 'Wild One' with Brando and his silly hat through to the present day view of outlaw clubs as a criminal organization (according to the cops) 40 different stories, reports and columns from those who have been involved in the scene from bikers, wannabee's, cops, et al. including Hunter S Thompson who wrote possible the seminal work entitled simply Hells Angels, also mentioned in Sonny Bargers autobiography (though not in a good light, which is good really as sometime the romanticism of living on the edge of society masks the reality of the actual scenario)
Damn good read and gives one a historical timeline.Classic club names such as 'The Boozefighters MC' naturally the HA, Outlaws, Bandido's etc There's more to the picture than meets the eye and it highlights the pallid and insubstantial efforts by the so called outlaw riders out there today who are mere weekend warriors on polished donkeys who don't shave on a Friday morning so that they can look suitably 'unkempt' at the weekend. (owning a Harley, looking mean and riding at the weekends doesn't automatically give you entrance to this exclusive club neccesarily in comparison to some of the guys and activities detailed in the book, Though to my mind H-D themselves don't mind one little bit, producing 'choppers' as well as 'garbage wagons').
One thing that struck me was the mention that some clubs are allowing members to ride non H-D machines. I was under the impression that this 'law' was set in stone, a jingoistic and nationalist rule which hearkened back to the early days. Even Barger himself admits (reluctantly I would think) that the ST1100 Pan European is a better bike than his Road King, though he still remains loyal to the chosen marque. Still You can't fight the inexorable tide of change.
Naturally you can make up your own minds about it all which is healthy, Heartily reccommend it. Good insight for us 'citizens'.
Anyway Athens is full of bikes, though not neccesarily bikers, everyone is riding them and generally in the evening two up, no sportsbikes, cruisers, tourers just shit loads of Varadero's, V-Stroms, XTX's, KTM's a fair few Triumph Tigers and swarms of four stroke c90 type machines virtually all sporting a power pipe making them sound like 600cc singles as they burr past flat out with all manner of stuff carried behind and in front of the predominantly non helmeted riders.
I've seen bikers in Milan and thought they were Death wish heroes but they are tame to some of the antics I saw on the Athenian streets. Still at least they get the helmet choice, it is after all apparently the seat, heart and the starting base of democracy.
The Ouzo was cheap and local beer Mythos is 5%, kebabs are tasty but the ruins are err... ruinous, most left to the imagination rather than a startling amount of info with which one can whet the appetite on. One day I think a bike trip to Southern Italy, across the Aegean sea via ferry and into Greece and back home the long way, through the Balkans would be a great little number. Hard to read a book but a definite righteous roadtrip.
Tuesday 20 November 2007
chapter 11 - Kings of the Thunderdrone
The tunnels were awesome, mostly short quarter milers, interspersed with longer ones. It was so bright outside that it neccesitated black visors to arrest some of the glare. We all played chicken when entering the tunnels. From bright to black. Looking through the black visors meant temporary blindness until are eyes adjusted. For most of them there was a light at the end of the tunnel, so not too bad, but the longer ones with bends in the middle were a little trickier.
We were naturally travelling fast (we had a lot of miles to cover after all), the usual fast but comfy 130-ish, whooshing into the darkness with the odd tail light here and there ahead was an interesting experience. I lifted my visor a coupla times, but this was just a target for the hugest bugs in Italy to smear their disgusting insect carcass's over my eyeballs (which stung quite a lot), and resulted in the by passing air catching the visor and trying to rip my lid from my head.
Towards the end of this particular stage, not far from the Province of Monaco (our next stop) I checked the mirrors to make sureFast Ed was still in tow (he was there at a respectable distance). I did notice behind him though a black car, close to the ground, halving the distance between him and Ed at a very rapid pace, unbelievably he was giving it the big headlight flashing manouvere. Outrageous! We had not been overtaken once thus far on the whole trip, I was struggling to come to terms with the temerity of the man, made me feel guilty for just loafing along at 120-130. I knew we were in Italy and they loved their fast cars but this was ridiculous. I guess he either wanted a race or was just in a hurry. Game on!
I pulled into the slow lane without slowing down to see what would happen next. Eddie pulled over (yes, believe it) and the black estate car (yes estate car) with blacked out windows bearing no visible insignia cruised past, the driver appeared to be fiddling one handed with the radio as he swept past me, it was a science fiction moment, a vanadium coated stealth bomber had just intruded into our space, had a look and was off, shifting through the atmosphere almost effortlessly.
Phil also pulled in and the car swept past him, I again checked the mirrors and saw Eddie pull out, the fiery irishman was not going to let this go lightly. he must have dropped a cog and wound the big red TLR right up and let it go. I stayed in station behind Phil as Eddie thundered past in hot pursuit of the stealth bomber , crudely bungeed luggage oscillating violently in the wind blast, then I pulled out, stuck my head under the paintwork and pressed my nose to the speedometer, as did Phil a few seconds later.
I was viewing 150 and not gaining on Eddie when another tunnel, mouth agape beckoned us in. Stealth bomber hit the anchors and slowed to about a ton in deference to other traffic. We closed up behind him in formation, saw a gap and sped by. It was a four hooped Audi (six months before the first mention of RS6). From that day to this it is still the car I desire most.
The driver demanded respect for this performance and I gave him a thumbs up as we went past which he acknowledged. fair play to the man!!
At the next fuel stop Fast Eddie said he saw 165 on the clock and was just starting to gain ground, another 10mph and our reputations would have been in tatters. Shortly afterwards the same scenario looked like it was going to happen, this time a cheeky git in a posh Porsche two seater, it looked pretty 'fat' and he thought he'd have a go, this time though we thought we'd let him chase us, moments later he was gone, lost in the traffic detritus that was our spent air, we were into calmer air and made steady progress towards Monaco. We were kings of the thunderdrone, disciples of the stoned age! Our ears only heard the wind and static
We were naturally travelling fast (we had a lot of miles to cover after all), the usual fast but comfy 130-ish, whooshing into the darkness with the odd tail light here and there ahead was an interesting experience. I lifted my visor a coupla times, but this was just a target for the hugest bugs in Italy to smear their disgusting insect carcass's over my eyeballs (which stung quite a lot), and resulted in the by passing air catching the visor and trying to rip my lid from my head.
Towards the end of this particular stage, not far from the Province of Monaco (our next stop) I checked the mirrors to make sureFast Ed was still in tow (he was there at a respectable distance). I did notice behind him though a black car, close to the ground, halving the distance between him and Ed at a very rapid pace, unbelievably he was giving it the big headlight flashing manouvere. Outrageous! We had not been overtaken once thus far on the whole trip, I was struggling to come to terms with the temerity of the man, made me feel guilty for just loafing along at 120-130. I knew we were in Italy and they loved their fast cars but this was ridiculous. I guess he either wanted a race or was just in a hurry. Game on!
I pulled into the slow lane without slowing down to see what would happen next. Eddie pulled over (yes, believe it) and the black estate car (yes estate car) with blacked out windows bearing no visible insignia cruised past, the driver appeared to be fiddling one handed with the radio as he swept past me, it was a science fiction moment, a vanadium coated stealth bomber had just intruded into our space, had a look and was off, shifting through the atmosphere almost effortlessly.
Phil also pulled in and the car swept past him, I again checked the mirrors and saw Eddie pull out, the fiery irishman was not going to let this go lightly. he must have dropped a cog and wound the big red TLR right up and let it go. I stayed in station behind Phil as Eddie thundered past in hot pursuit of the stealth bomber , crudely bungeed luggage oscillating violently in the wind blast, then I pulled out, stuck my head under the paintwork and pressed my nose to the speedometer, as did Phil a few seconds later.
I was viewing 150 and not gaining on Eddie when another tunnel, mouth agape beckoned us in. Stealth bomber hit the anchors and slowed to about a ton in deference to other traffic. We closed up behind him in formation, saw a gap and sped by. It was a four hooped Audi (six months before the first mention of RS6). From that day to this it is still the car I desire most.
The driver demanded respect for this performance and I gave him a thumbs up as we went past which he acknowledged. fair play to the man!!
At the next fuel stop Fast Eddie said he saw 165 on the clock and was just starting to gain ground, another 10mph and our reputations would have been in tatters. Shortly afterwards the same scenario looked like it was going to happen, this time a cheeky git in a posh Porsche two seater, it looked pretty 'fat' and he thought he'd have a go, this time though we thought we'd let him chase us, moments later he was gone, lost in the traffic detritus that was our spent air, we were into calmer air and made steady progress towards Monaco. We were kings of the thunderdrone, disciples of the stoned age! Our ears only heard the wind and static
Monday 19 November 2007
Chapter 10 - The only sound was the muffled crump off our exhausts.
We were heading west to Barcelona, to check an old school friend out and thought we'd go the scenic route via Florence and Pisa, then along the bay of Genoa keeping the green wobbly stuff on our left. We had two days to get there, we could have done it in a day but we didn't have to, so we took it easy.
The garage opposite 'manse iceheart' helped us check our tyre pressures. We gassed up and set off. Florence for luncheon don't you know, just a short blast to the sunflower and lace capital of Italy. It was only a short blast down the road.
We parked up, scored lunch and then mooched around the market bathed in sunshine and as warm as you like, we each purchased the token prezzie for loved ones, stuffed into meagre luggage and then hot footed it to Pisa. The weather couldn't have been more different than yesterday, it was gloriously hot and bright and bode well for rubber burning later in the day.
Pisa seemed like a small town, remarkable only for the epicentre of tourist activity that was the landmark church and skewed tower. In the flesh the lean is remarkable, somehow it doesn't look real on postcards, but apparentley another coupla degrees of dangle and the whole lot would topple over. The architect had built his house upon the sand an it had sunk and skewed to one side. Over the years remedial work had been undertaken but to no avail, consequently it was too dangerous to get in and up it.
The whole structure was clothed in an exoskeleton of steel, whilst the latest efforts to arrest the slow downfall of the tower were ongoing.
It was boiling hot, we ate ice creams and waved grinning African immigrants away like bothersome flies with their fools gold and tawdry timepieces. They were persistant but not a groat passed between us. Time to go, we had been a bit lax on the mileage front, time to travel.
In a show of pouissance and cred, slipping the clutch and feeding the revs in, the rear hoop failed to grip and momentarily tried to overtake the front. Starfishing in a frozen moment of dread, the rear Bridgestone finally hooked up and the bike tried to fling me over the highside. I hung on and it righted itself, my heart reduced it's jackhammer beat and fear sweat bathed my torso, luckily I got away with not dumping myself and machine bang in the middle of the street thronged with tourists and hawkers. My wrists ached like mad but I stared straight ahead insouciantly, nipping into line behind Phil and Fast, onward to La Spezia.
We hit the coast and turned right heading back north on the major motorway artery, hugging the coastline, skirting the Gulf of Genoa as it arced up and over into France.
This length of blacktop was truly fantastic, the whole afternoon was a series of shallow curves, long straights, tunnels and bridges, in brilliant sunshine and hot weather for hundreds of miles.
The only sound was the muffled crump of our exhausts as they bounced gobbets of bludgeoning sound off the tunnel walls like syncopated howitzers, the susurration of the Bridgestones as they lightly kissed the tarmac, the windblast as we ripped through the air, and my breathing seeming to come from the centre of my head, (weird effect, probably due to ear plugs).
The garage opposite 'manse iceheart' helped us check our tyre pressures. We gassed up and set off. Florence for luncheon don't you know, just a short blast to the sunflower and lace capital of Italy. It was only a short blast down the road.
We parked up, scored lunch and then mooched around the market bathed in sunshine and as warm as you like, we each purchased the token prezzie for loved ones, stuffed into meagre luggage and then hot footed it to Pisa. The weather couldn't have been more different than yesterday, it was gloriously hot and bright and bode well for rubber burning later in the day.
Pisa seemed like a small town, remarkable only for the epicentre of tourist activity that was the landmark church and skewed tower. In the flesh the lean is remarkable, somehow it doesn't look real on postcards, but apparentley another coupla degrees of dangle and the whole lot would topple over. The architect had built his house upon the sand an it had sunk and skewed to one side. Over the years remedial work had been undertaken but to no avail, consequently it was too dangerous to get in and up it.
The whole structure was clothed in an exoskeleton of steel, whilst the latest efforts to arrest the slow downfall of the tower were ongoing.
It was boiling hot, we ate ice creams and waved grinning African immigrants away like bothersome flies with their fools gold and tawdry timepieces. They were persistant but not a groat passed between us. Time to go, we had been a bit lax on the mileage front, time to travel.
In a show of pouissance and cred, slipping the clutch and feeding the revs in, the rear hoop failed to grip and momentarily tried to overtake the front. Starfishing in a frozen moment of dread, the rear Bridgestone finally hooked up and the bike tried to fling me over the highside. I hung on and it righted itself, my heart reduced it's jackhammer beat and fear sweat bathed my torso, luckily I got away with not dumping myself and machine bang in the middle of the street thronged with tourists and hawkers. My wrists ached like mad but I stared straight ahead insouciantly, nipping into line behind Phil and Fast, onward to La Spezia.
We hit the coast and turned right heading back north on the major motorway artery, hugging the coastline, skirting the Gulf of Genoa as it arced up and over into France.
This length of blacktop was truly fantastic, the whole afternoon was a series of shallow curves, long straights, tunnels and bridges, in brilliant sunshine and hot weather for hundreds of miles.
The only sound was the muffled crump of our exhausts as they bounced gobbets of bludgeoning sound off the tunnel walls like syncopated howitzers, the susurration of the Bridgestones as they lightly kissed the tarmac, the windblast as we ripped through the air, and my breathing seeming to come from the centre of my head, (weird effect, probably due to ear plugs).
Wednesday 14 November 2007
Chapter 9 - Hill thunder
Well thats the ZZR1400 under my belt. Might have to wait for Johnny weather to clear up significantly in order to have a taste of the 1098 Duke.
Gotta get a schedule together for 2008 to test at least one new bike a month. Can't wait. The Hypermotard has to be on that list. Then My mate and I can have a tear up, he's got a gorgeous KTM 950 Supermotard. Should be interesting! Roll on spring!!
Anyway without further ado, the next thrilling instalment of the road trip
Thunder boomed across the low hills out the back of the hotel, quite fitting really as the rumbles pealed out of the sky, earlier we had also thundered through the same hills, bouncing hellish sonic V-twin booms down the valleys.
Sorted and showered and once again in civvies we slunk out of the lobby finding a nearby pizza house, we ate mightily and consumed more yellow beer before stumbling back to the nights temporary HQ. My sleep was interrupted by Edmund The Snorebastardmeistergeneral throughout the night, but darkness, relaxation and warmth rejuvenates the soul remarkably well even if wakefulness cannot be shrugged off.
We awake (or rather Phil and Eddie did) rather early, the scrum for a position at the circuit would be intense. We needed to stake our claim and fly our flag.
We trouped down too reception, as luck would have it (or not) it was my turn to sort the bill out. I had forgotten the 5 languaged notice proclaiming 'Absolutely no way whatsoever do we accept credit cards' and calmly palmed my shining plastique to the receptionist. Fully armed silicon equipped holographic authenticity sparkled in the rogue shaft of yellow sunlight. It was motioned away with a dismissive gesture of the hand and my attention was brought to the aforementioned notice. I shrugged and gave it the best crinkling around the corner of the eye type, half teeth revealed smile to get over the 'Look I'm basically honest, I have no cash but you can make an exception for me (cheeky but pleasant) geezer offering credit card, what a nice young man, despite the leathers look, reminds me of my grandson' scenario that I could muster. No feckin Italian dice however.
What was I fucking vampire or something? Tsh!
The elderly matriarcial crone (probably the owner) gesticulated and cackled briefly, the younger pidgeon interpreter woman managed to get over the message that there was a Banco up the roado that opened at 9.00, get up there, score some dough on the plastique and then offski to Mugello.
For their security I had to remain at the hotel with two passports out of three, whilst Phil and Fast had to go and sort the loot out. Bit of a result as they would have to use their own cards.
They returned with the loot and 'Crone Iceheart Matriarch Hotelier Cash Only You young upstart English pup' swapped thousands of Lire in return for our stay and temporarily hostaged passports.
Apparentley when the lads went to the Banco, the dozy trainee bint behind the screen gave them £1000 quids worth 0f Lire instead of £100. If it wasn't for the manager noticing the mistake as they left the building we would have been quids in. Like I said Tricky bugger Johnny Lire even for the locals.
We departed for the short excursion to Mugello, we had arranged to leave our luggage at the hotel because we would need a bed for the night again before embarking on the next leg of our journey. The bikes unfettered with luggage were covered in dead fly filth, but looked great and sounded magnificent as we started our engines and shattered a few windows.
We got to the circuit, which was mobbed, found a parking slot in some old farmers back yard amongst several hundred others, paid our dues to greasy palmed and dirty fingernailed peasant type and hoofed it to the circuit. We didn't have tickets but we managed to score three off a tout and we were in. We had made it.
It was heaving, barely a blade of grass was not covered by a human occupant or their blanket, campfire, tent etc, all around the circuit. To be honest we couldn't see a great deal, the bikes were specks and it started to rain. The desultory conditions were a pisser, we spent more time trying to stay dry than watching the race. When the 500's made their way round on the practise lap it was sluicing down. McWilliams managed to bin his ride so the Irish interest for Eddie was gone. The great Valentino Rossi triumphed. I felt dejected and damp. So much effort to get here and an absolute wash out when we did. It may sound a bit strange but this was the lowest point of the road trip for me. We would have seen more on the telly, the saving grace was that we had jumped on our bikes and done something with them, giving them their head and exercising them far more than most other days.
It took hours to get out of the area after the race, covered in quag and mud from our parking area, spraying it around as we crept slowly to the exits, still at least we had the loudest bikes there which was quite gratifying. We returned to Manse Iceheart Mother in Voglia, holed up for the niight once again and plotted our return leg home.
Gotta get a schedule together for 2008 to test at least one new bike a month. Can't wait. The Hypermotard has to be on that list. Then My mate and I can have a tear up, he's got a gorgeous KTM 950 Supermotard. Should be interesting! Roll on spring!!
Anyway without further ado, the next thrilling instalment of the road trip
Mine was the same spec, but with less luggage and twin alloyYoshi's
Thunder boomed across the low hills out the back of the hotel, quite fitting really as the rumbles pealed out of the sky, earlier we had also thundered through the same hills, bouncing hellish sonic V-twin booms down the valleys.
Sorted and showered and once again in civvies we slunk out of the lobby finding a nearby pizza house, we ate mightily and consumed more yellow beer before stumbling back to the nights temporary HQ. My sleep was interrupted by Edmund The Snorebastardmeistergeneral throughout the night, but darkness, relaxation and warmth rejuvenates the soul remarkably well even if wakefulness cannot be shrugged off.
We awake (or rather Phil and Eddie did) rather early, the scrum for a position at the circuit would be intense. We needed to stake our claim and fly our flag.
We trouped down too reception, as luck would have it (or not) it was my turn to sort the bill out. I had forgotten the 5 languaged notice proclaiming 'Absolutely no way whatsoever do we accept credit cards' and calmly palmed my shining plastique to the receptionist. Fully armed silicon equipped holographic authenticity sparkled in the rogue shaft of yellow sunlight. It was motioned away with a dismissive gesture of the hand and my attention was brought to the aforementioned notice. I shrugged and gave it the best crinkling around the corner of the eye type, half teeth revealed smile to get over the 'Look I'm basically honest, I have no cash but you can make an exception for me (cheeky but pleasant) geezer offering credit card, what a nice young man, despite the leathers look, reminds me of my grandson' scenario that I could muster. No feckin Italian dice however.
What was I fucking vampire or something? Tsh!
The elderly matriarcial crone (probably the owner) gesticulated and cackled briefly, the younger pidgeon interpreter woman managed to get over the message that there was a Banco up the roado that opened at 9.00, get up there, score some dough on the plastique and then offski to Mugello.
For their security I had to remain at the hotel with two passports out of three, whilst Phil and Fast had to go and sort the loot out. Bit of a result as they would have to use their own cards.
They returned with the loot and 'Crone Iceheart Matriarch Hotelier Cash Only You young upstart English pup' swapped thousands of Lire in return for our stay and temporarily hostaged passports.
Apparentley when the lads went to the Banco, the dozy trainee bint behind the screen gave them £1000 quids worth 0f Lire instead of £100. If it wasn't for the manager noticing the mistake as they left the building we would have been quids in. Like I said Tricky bugger Johnny Lire even for the locals.
We departed for the short excursion to Mugello, we had arranged to leave our luggage at the hotel because we would need a bed for the night again before embarking on the next leg of our journey. The bikes unfettered with luggage were covered in dead fly filth, but looked great and sounded magnificent as we started our engines and shattered a few windows.
We got to the circuit, which was mobbed, found a parking slot in some old farmers back yard amongst several hundred others, paid our dues to greasy palmed and dirty fingernailed peasant type and hoofed it to the circuit. We didn't have tickets but we managed to score three off a tout and we were in. We had made it.
It was heaving, barely a blade of grass was not covered by a human occupant or their blanket, campfire, tent etc, all around the circuit. To be honest we couldn't see a great deal, the bikes were specks and it started to rain. The desultory conditions were a pisser, we spent more time trying to stay dry than watching the race. When the 500's made their way round on the practise lap it was sluicing down. McWilliams managed to bin his ride so the Irish interest for Eddie was gone. The great Valentino Rossi triumphed. I felt dejected and damp. So much effort to get here and an absolute wash out when we did. It may sound a bit strange but this was the lowest point of the road trip for me. We would have seen more on the telly, the saving grace was that we had jumped on our bikes and done something with them, giving them their head and exercising them far more than most other days.
It took hours to get out of the area after the race, covered in quag and mud from our parking area, spraying it around as we crept slowly to the exits, still at least we had the loudest bikes there which was quite gratifying. We returned to Manse Iceheart Mother in Voglia, holed up for the niight once again and plotted our return leg home.
Tuesday 6 November 2007
Engage interstellar overdrive
Kawasaki ZZR1400
The Fourteen can trace its lineage from the Air cooled super bike Z900 35+ years ago. through the GPZ1000RX, ZX-10 B models, and then the first ZZR proper, The C1. This was an 1100cc machine offered into the marketplace in 1989. I had one and covered a lot of ground on it.
The Fourteen can trace its lineage from the Air cooled super bike Z900 35+ years ago. through the GPZ1000RX, ZX-10 B models, and then the first ZZR proper, The C1. This was an 1100cc machine offered into the marketplace in 1989. I had one and covered a lot of ground on it.
This progressed into a D9 configuration by which time it was sanitised a little and the ZZR1200 ‘C’ models though also a superb machine somehow was behind the opposition, concurrent for a few years was the ZX12R unrestricted ‘A’ models, then the sleeker ‘B’ culminating in the radial callipered B6 models, as a stop gap before the launch of the ‘14’ at the beginning of the 2006 season.
This is a big bike, the engine crammed into its monocoque chassis with the fairing just about covering its blushes. Two sets of lights nacelled into the front fairing with. running lights on all the EU time. Giving it a thoroughly modern leading edge. The main headlights provided a white light that marked the way ahead at this time of year, providing good delineation in the gloom of the oncoming winter nights
I have to say I had gotten used to the clock set-up on the last two Kawasakis the Z1000 and ZX6R. Both of a similar nature and easy to read at a glance. The fourteen had a mixture of traditional clocks, (white faced), and a separate digital panel with the ancillary information displayed by virtue of a mode switch. Including two trip meters, current range and average mpg, as well as the time and gear indicator.
The reach to the wide spaced chunky looking bars is good, equally is the foothold and crunch angle of the knees. The seat is wide and for a modern bike quite sumptuous and for once the screen actually appears to work, pushing the air around and away without obscuring ones vision of the clocks with its top edge like most sports bikes, slight bubble and tinted. The mirrors are widely spaced and akin if not straight from a ZX12 having ridged stalks, presumably for optimum air slicing, they however are a bulky unit with the glass inset and movable separate to the unit itself, you can however see what’s going on behind.
On start up the dials whirr once as the default start up settings are activated, a ‘K’ logo appears on the dash the fuel pump primes and you are now ready to thumb the starter, which catches immediately and puts the bike in fast idle mode turning over at about 1,500rpm. This shortly settles down to slow idle speed - 1,000 rpm, time to select first gear. (Clunk -read ‘positive’)
I picked the bike up with nothing but vapours so my first stop was the petrol station. The big zed sucked up £17 quid to full, I reckoned that I had about 135 mile tank range, so setting my trip meter and with a full gas tank I pierced the slow moving commuter traffic and head off to work, with little chance to open it up.
The bike was mine for three days. The guy who owns it had just received it back from Dream Machine having requested a MotoGP replica style paint job, and what stunning paint! The new livery transformed the staid (but I guess classy monotones) of the standard bike, made it come alive. The sleek bodywork and detail somehow seemed more apparent.
By the time I gave it back I had managed a meagre 206.7 miles at an average of 38.0 mpg, the first tank returning 15 miles short of my estimate at 119 miles.
This bike Kawasaki categorizes as a sports tourer and that’s exactly what it is. For sure this bike is all about speed, this will always be the main talking point. Punching through the air, oodles of torque and a romantic delusion that on the way home the roads will be empty, there will be no Police and no cameras thus a chance to really prove its hyped mettle and to exhilarate the soul of the rider.
Horsepower greedheads and BHP junkies will buy this bike purely because of the claim to the fastest production bike currently made (or was! I have just read the Bike magazine review of the 2008 Hayabusa) despite the fact that it’s restricted to the gentleman’s agreement amongst mainstream manufacturers to 186. I guess the only difference between this bike and the Hayabusa in the real world of daily or regular use for instance is brand allegiance and an opinionated view on the aesthetics which are worlds apart though they both claim to cut through the air the most efficient. It would be interesting to sling a leg over the ‘Busa’ to see if there was a marked difference.
I was expecting a monstrous machine. Perhaps part of me was hoping it would be so in order to pit my skills against it, difficult to wield in traffic and one that required effort to push it through bends, but nothing could be further from the truth. The length of the bike is almost certainly for stability at high speed so I was expecting some under steer in fast sweepers, but no, it went where it was pointed and unless I explored the outer regions of its power supply I couldn’t feel it wandering and my favourite ‘S’ bends usually do not lie.
I was a little surprised I have to be honest it’s very easy to ride and the day to day rider would probably get more pleasure out of a smaller machine to be honest unless they live near a disused runway.
There was simply no space or time to open it up significantly, and this is the truth of daily commuting. Though the comfort angle was tested, and for that it scored sumptuous marks in its class.
I would even go as far to say that the first ride of 100 miles left me disappointed. The traffic was too clogged for me to set controls for the heart of the sun and even if I had a clear launch pad and then flicked it into interstellar overdrive it just pulled seamlessly. As far as I could tell there was no vicious thrust in the back no lung bursting, retina smearing lunge into the space time continuum just a notion of entering the stratosphere and the sudden realization that the air was thin.
This is a big bike, the engine crammed into its monocoque chassis with the fairing just about covering its blushes. Two sets of lights nacelled into the front fairing with. running lights on all the EU time. Giving it a thoroughly modern leading edge. The main headlights provided a white light that marked the way ahead at this time of year, providing good delineation in the gloom of the oncoming winter nights
I have to say I had gotten used to the clock set-up on the last two Kawasakis the Z1000 and ZX6R. Both of a similar nature and easy to read at a glance. The fourteen had a mixture of traditional clocks, (white faced), and a separate digital panel with the ancillary information displayed by virtue of a mode switch. Including two trip meters, current range and average mpg, as well as the time and gear indicator.
The reach to the wide spaced chunky looking bars is good, equally is the foothold and crunch angle of the knees. The seat is wide and for a modern bike quite sumptuous and for once the screen actually appears to work, pushing the air around and away without obscuring ones vision of the clocks with its top edge like most sports bikes, slight bubble and tinted. The mirrors are widely spaced and akin if not straight from a ZX12 having ridged stalks, presumably for optimum air slicing, they however are a bulky unit with the glass inset and movable separate to the unit itself, you can however see what’s going on behind.
On start up the dials whirr once as the default start up settings are activated, a ‘K’ logo appears on the dash the fuel pump primes and you are now ready to thumb the starter, which catches immediately and puts the bike in fast idle mode turning over at about 1,500rpm. This shortly settles down to slow idle speed - 1,000 rpm, time to select first gear. (Clunk -read ‘positive’)
I picked the bike up with nothing but vapours so my first stop was the petrol station. The big zed sucked up £17 quid to full, I reckoned that I had about 135 mile tank range, so setting my trip meter and with a full gas tank I pierced the slow moving commuter traffic and head off to work, with little chance to open it up.
The bike was mine for three days. The guy who owns it had just received it back from Dream Machine having requested a MotoGP replica style paint job, and what stunning paint! The new livery transformed the staid (but I guess classy monotones) of the standard bike, made it come alive. The sleek bodywork and detail somehow seemed more apparent.
By the time I gave it back I had managed a meagre 206.7 miles at an average of 38.0 mpg, the first tank returning 15 miles short of my estimate at 119 miles.
This bike Kawasaki categorizes as a sports tourer and that’s exactly what it is. For sure this bike is all about speed, this will always be the main talking point. Punching through the air, oodles of torque and a romantic delusion that on the way home the roads will be empty, there will be no Police and no cameras thus a chance to really prove its hyped mettle and to exhilarate the soul of the rider.
Horsepower greedheads and BHP junkies will buy this bike purely because of the claim to the fastest production bike currently made (or was! I have just read the Bike magazine review of the 2008 Hayabusa) despite the fact that it’s restricted to the gentleman’s agreement amongst mainstream manufacturers to 186. I guess the only difference between this bike and the Hayabusa in the real world of daily or regular use for instance is brand allegiance and an opinionated view on the aesthetics which are worlds apart though they both claim to cut through the air the most efficient. It would be interesting to sling a leg over the ‘Busa’ to see if there was a marked difference.
I was expecting a monstrous machine. Perhaps part of me was hoping it would be so in order to pit my skills against it, difficult to wield in traffic and one that required effort to push it through bends, but nothing could be further from the truth. The length of the bike is almost certainly for stability at high speed so I was expecting some under steer in fast sweepers, but no, it went where it was pointed and unless I explored the outer regions of its power supply I couldn’t feel it wandering and my favourite ‘S’ bends usually do not lie.
I was a little surprised I have to be honest it’s very easy to ride and the day to day rider would probably get more pleasure out of a smaller machine to be honest unless they live near a disused runway.
There was simply no space or time to open it up significantly, and this is the truth of daily commuting. Though the comfort angle was tested, and for that it scored sumptuous marks in its class.
I would even go as far to say that the first ride of 100 miles left me disappointed. The traffic was too clogged for me to set controls for the heart of the sun and even if I had a clear launch pad and then flicked it into interstellar overdrive it just pulled seamlessly. As far as I could tell there was no vicious thrust in the back no lung bursting, retina smearing lunge into the space time continuum just a notion of entering the stratosphere and the sudden realization that the air was thin.
I was expecting the capacious maw of the airbox to suck the daylight out of the sky and the colours from it’s surroundings as it pressurized in a relentless and avaricious hoovering of all that surrounded it. But, I was almost divorced from the visceral experience I was expecting. Life seemed silent and frozen, my breath wasn’t coming in ragged staccato gasps like it had on the 6R, I wasn’t cackling to myself within the confines of my lid, I twisted the throttle and it just glided into hyper drive with no fuss just blind but puissant subservience. I even jokingly said to The illustrious publisher of this organ that if he didn’t’hear from me again it meant that I had burnt up on re-entry. Thankfully that was just an element of romanticism and here I am to tell the tale. Wrapped and rapt in wind tunnel design excellence and triumphal engineering.
Kawasaki have a reputation for producing raw edged machines, but I was more blown away by my first ride on an unrestricted ZX12R than I was this bike, I guess what I am trying to say is that it’s too easy, anybody could ride it and if space and time allowed anybody could ride it fast. The intimidation factor, the ‘dredd’ was merely by reputation and not in the actual riding experience as far as I could go (casts around for an unusually deserted runway)
Don’t get me wrong it would be easy to scatter superlatives around like confetti, because this is a consumate machine, it’s just my own perception of it was misplaced. I think I have some sort of gothic notion of alchemy as an ingredient of these latest generation hyperbikes. How do they get all that metal and oil to move so fast so smoothly? There’s a magic in it somewhere.
The current clime restricts my use and so I can’t embark on a 1,000 mile journey into the sunset hills of my fancy, get lost amongst the heat shimmers of the middle distance, so maybe I could try again in the summer.
The technical stuff I won’t dwell on too much in the text because if you want to know, it’s readily available, what you need to know is how it works and or affects you and your ride. Your long term ownership and servicing costs etc.
The tyres are Bridgestone BT014’s and despite a rapidly squaring off and barely legal tread depth on the rear, again I couldn’t’ fault the grip. The bike has completed 2200 miles so look at a lifeline of 3,000 max as a safe estimate at relatively normal velocity with a replacement price of approx £160 inc a shot. When the front is ready this will set you back about £120. OE tread is the Bridgestone’s with the ‘L’ suffix denoting specific rear fitment and ‘SL’ for the front
The more bison-like or statuesque rider can adjust the sturdy 43mm upside downies for compression, rebound and preload. The rear shock can be easily preloaded for pillions whom I should imagine should be more than comfortable on the roomy pasture of the rear seat pad area without the usual scrunched and hunched posture of your average pillion ride.
If you wanna fly solo, colour matched rear seat cowls can be purchased as a genuine (fitted to this bike and painted as part of the overall paint) or aftermarket accessory and as a ‘lost to sports bikes’ soul in my opinion definitely is a must fit item, it certainly improves the look.
There are various companies that offer C/F panels also, which allied with the paintwork would take the aesthetics up a notch.
Discs are now standard semi floating 310mm petal discs at the front and a 250mm unit at the rear for steadying the slew if you were to be heavy with the right foot and they do stop; but because of the 225 kilo’s of acquired momentum they do take more effort than the Zed1000 and the ZX6R I recently tested, but that’s not a criticism, they are all different bikes.
First service on a new bike is usually ‘on the house’ after 600 miles but thereafter minors are approx £100 at 4,000 miles, my local dealer hadn’t completed a major service up to now but look at least £250 upwards
The only raw edge I could find on the bike was the clutch, in neutral at traffic lights for instance there was a definite rumble which disappeared when you pulled in the six way adjustable hydraulic clutch lever and gear changes though positive were a trifle clunky at low speed, it got slicker the faster you were moving, but that’s just trying to find a bad thing to say about a very well engineered package almost to balance the superlatives by way of fairness.
The fan cut in very early whilst in town mode. Makes sense I guess, big bike, lots of metal whizzing around, high tolerances, hence large radiator to shed the heat and a big fan for back up when the traffic jams, speed camera, common sense and a license to protect finally halt any rapid progress you might wish.
De rigeur really I suppose but I would lose the twin pipe set up if funds allowed, they are monstrously long and I think with shorter pipes or a singular unit would divert attention to the obvious length of the machine at 2170mm plus of course giving it a sportier edge lopping off pounds and benefiting the grunt factor by increasing the aural effect, call me old fashioned but bikes should sound like bikes, I realize manufacturers have specs and regs they must adhere to, but this bikes voice was certainly lacking in character.
In a perfect world, this bike would be one of many that I would like to own and when I wished to cross the pond and travel light, this bike I know would come into its own, it could stretch its legs and I could peer through burning air as I headed for European road network freedom.
The real world however is populated by seemingly millions of car drivers that constantly contrive to halt one‘s progress, of insidious policemen lurking in hedgerow and undergrowth of the proliferation of cameras taxing the unwary for their misdemeanors and there are very few deserted runways within hundreds of miles. And its getting farquing cold again. (Must be NEC time).
The aforementioned owner who has kindly lent it to me is a trusting soul and a thoroughly decent chap and has asked me to mention Solus Kawasaki experts Alf’s motorcycles in Worthing West Sussex who sold him the bike and arranged the paint for him.
Doby Trutcenden 5.11.07
Write your own review and submit it on http://www.ukbike.com/ and they'll send you a freebie t-shirt if they publish.
Friday 2 November 2007
Couldn't find Elvis
I got my motor running, fired all my guns at once and exploded into space. It's official the Sun is lying, no hint of Elvis, the Titanic or red London busses. Time to come clean Nasa, I did a swift low level orbit and couldn't see their mark.
Road test on Kawasaki's Mother ship coming soon !!!!
Tuesday 23 October 2007
Where's all the time gone?
I,m not sure if I'm talking into space sometimes, but nevertheless this blog is a means to recount my biking activity whether anybody is 'listening' or not but it is cathartic if nothing else, allowing stuff bouncing around in my head to be purged to make way for more plus also an outlet for previous scribbles and allowing me space to write stuff that my day today activity on http://www.ukbike.com/ does not.
It's been a while if you have been 'listening' The memory of the razor sharp ZX6R is fading and I'm hungry for more miles under my belt on something new, The ZX9 felt flat and as sloppy as an old armchair since the 6. With any luck I've lined up a 1098 Duke, and a ZZR1400 for the near future, it's just finding time and a clear coupla days to give them a good squeezing, they are both privately owned machines and I owe it to the owners to exercise due care and attention to their present condition out of courtesy and respect, but soon, soon, I feel like a junkie in need of the next fix.
I was part of the Brightona organization which has received most excellent feedback from all and sundry receiving comments as 'the best bike show in the south by far' which is a great accolade and a fat slap on the back for all the hard work myself and particularly others have put into the event. Bear in mind this event is always described in the same breath as the Rockers Reunion Ace Cafe run, so thanx to everyone who came, participated, paid, donated and enjoyed the day.
I'm an old stick in the mud. I like my sports bikes. Bikes are for thrills, for getting the heart racing, for introducing an element of danger into ones sometimes hum drum life, call me jaded with reality but bikes give me that sense of satisfaction and exhileration that is hard to find elsewhere especially when a clear roundabout presents itself the right gear is selected and (despite the fact that it probably doesn't in reality) the feeling that the rear tyre is slipping due to my (perceived but mistaken belief) trackgod prowess. Its a buzz!
having just said all that Some of the chops, lowriders and custom machines on display at Brightona were fantastic and oh God be kind, bring me some disposable income to have one, I promise I would ride it sensibly, I would park it next to my KTM supermono, ZX-10C and Zed 1000 in my fantasy garage, and lavish equal attention upon it. (At least dreams are free).
Anyway time to finish what I started 8 chapters ago. The TL road trip must recommence until finality. I can then stuff it in my fat and largely discarded files of memorable experiences and move onto another. So here you are...............
Chapter 9 - The strokers are so close I can smell 'em.
One last fill up before we were going to find a roof for the night. We stopped in an Agip filling station, swarming with bikes like angry and discordant bee's, the air resonated and each pump had a 'groovy' gas pumping attendant dude with a cash bag lashed round their waist. I motioned to the nearest one to fill up the sweating TLR, holding the bike upright to ensure a proper brim full load. (I thought that I would need every drop available in the parsimonious tank, tomorrow there would be shit loads of bikes swarming around in packs, availability of juice may be hard to find).
We were within sniffing distance of Mugello which was only about 50 miles away, The strokers were so close you could almost smell them. I could see them in my minds eye scudding around in the practice sessions already, those hideously peaky stink wheel 500cc two stroke missiles guided by their diminutive pilotes fighting for the chequers. Of 60,000 people ululating praise and appreciation upon the victor announcing his entry into that particular hall of fame.
I was drawn out of my reverie by a grubby hand and an alien voice whose balls hadn't dropped pointing at the gas pump's LED display, which showed me a numeric at least 400 charachters long. It rocked me back on my heels for some reason, lucky I was sitting down. Common sense and a grasp of present reality quickly kicked in once more of course they had about 4,000 Lire to the pound (thank fuck for the Euro). Time to get rid of a kilo weight of eytie money. I handed over the sheaf of notes and 'pump groover' said 'no change'. I said 'You what' again rocking back on my heels astride the mighty TL he said again 'no change' this time with a flicker of a sneer on his thin lips. I worked out that the impudent pump pimp groover fellow owed me close to 800.
I had lapsed into incredulous disbelief momentarily once again. Common sense then kicked in. 'Fuck it it's only twenty pence and the coinage required to furnish me with change would be like swimming with lead weights. You may think it's weird asking for 20p change, when in the great scheme of things I was wasting rubber and the ozone layer at an alarming rate, the cost of which on my return to blighty would severely hamper my beer drinking opportunities for many months, but Johnny Lire was a tricky bugger to get your head round. Oh Yes!
We all pulled back into the autostrada super highway and shortly thereafter took a slip road into some low hills adjacent to the motorway hoping to find a snug little B&B or something.
Twenty miles further down the road we rejoined the main artery having had no luck and pulled in eventually at a hotel sign pointing to a little place entitled Voglia Del Plans. The hotel was just up the road opposite a ramshackle garage, quite a grand old looking building faded somewhat but it had a suitable gentrified air about it, family ran, no glitz or neon just old style comfort and faded velvet. We landed and streched our fly spattered leather limbs. There were some other bikers in residence which was a good sign, Germans by the look of their plates, their rear tyres had been given a workout. Fair play to the Hun.
The first thing I noticed as we trouped into the lobby was a prominent sign saying 'No credit cards' in five different languages. We'd just done the last of our cash filling up with juice up the road, because the majority of gas stations didn't accept credit cards either. Basically on the strength of that notice we wouldn't be able to pay for the room and beers the next morning. Still that was tomorrow and we needed a place to stay, we'd work it out tomorrow, if they got the strop with us at least we'd be washed, probably slightly hungover and rested. We stayed mum and the aged crone was eager for the business as far as we could work out. A quick dumping of our sparse baggage, into crumpled civvies and to the bar for painfully small glasses of yellow beer. Refreshing to know we had made it. Tomorrow was the day!
It's been a while if you have been 'listening' The memory of the razor sharp ZX6R is fading and I'm hungry for more miles under my belt on something new, The ZX9 felt flat and as sloppy as an old armchair since the 6. With any luck I've lined up a 1098 Duke, and a ZZR1400 for the near future, it's just finding time and a clear coupla days to give them a good squeezing, they are both privately owned machines and I owe it to the owners to exercise due care and attention to their present condition out of courtesy and respect, but soon, soon, I feel like a junkie in need of the next fix.
I was part of the Brightona organization which has received most excellent feedback from all and sundry receiving comments as 'the best bike show in the south by far' which is a great accolade and a fat slap on the back for all the hard work myself and particularly others have put into the event. Bear in mind this event is always described in the same breath as the Rockers Reunion Ace Cafe run, so thanx to everyone who came, participated, paid, donated and enjoyed the day.
I'm an old stick in the mud. I like my sports bikes. Bikes are for thrills, for getting the heart racing, for introducing an element of danger into ones sometimes hum drum life, call me jaded with reality but bikes give me that sense of satisfaction and exhileration that is hard to find elsewhere especially when a clear roundabout presents itself the right gear is selected and (despite the fact that it probably doesn't in reality) the feeling that the rear tyre is slipping due to my (perceived but mistaken belief) trackgod prowess. Its a buzz!
having just said all that Some of the chops, lowriders and custom machines on display at Brightona were fantastic and oh God be kind, bring me some disposable income to have one, I promise I would ride it sensibly, I would park it next to my KTM supermono, ZX-10C and Zed 1000 in my fantasy garage, and lavish equal attention upon it. (At least dreams are free).
Anyway time to finish what I started 8 chapters ago. The TL road trip must recommence until finality. I can then stuff it in my fat and largely discarded files of memorable experiences and move onto another. So here you are...............
Chapter 9 - The strokers are so close I can smell 'em.
One last fill up before we were going to find a roof for the night. We stopped in an Agip filling station, swarming with bikes like angry and discordant bee's, the air resonated and each pump had a 'groovy' gas pumping attendant dude with a cash bag lashed round their waist. I motioned to the nearest one to fill up the sweating TLR, holding the bike upright to ensure a proper brim full load. (I thought that I would need every drop available in the parsimonious tank, tomorrow there would be shit loads of bikes swarming around in packs, availability of juice may be hard to find).
We were within sniffing distance of Mugello which was only about 50 miles away, The strokers were so close you could almost smell them. I could see them in my minds eye scudding around in the practice sessions already, those hideously peaky stink wheel 500cc two stroke missiles guided by their diminutive pilotes fighting for the chequers. Of 60,000 people ululating praise and appreciation upon the victor announcing his entry into that particular hall of fame.
I was drawn out of my reverie by a grubby hand and an alien voice whose balls hadn't dropped pointing at the gas pump's LED display, which showed me a numeric at least 400 charachters long. It rocked me back on my heels for some reason, lucky I was sitting down. Common sense and a grasp of present reality quickly kicked in once more of course they had about 4,000 Lire to the pound (thank fuck for the Euro). Time to get rid of a kilo weight of eytie money. I handed over the sheaf of notes and 'pump groover' said 'no change'. I said 'You what' again rocking back on my heels astride the mighty TL he said again 'no change' this time with a flicker of a sneer on his thin lips. I worked out that the impudent pump pimp groover fellow owed me close to 800.
I had lapsed into incredulous disbelief momentarily once again. Common sense then kicked in. 'Fuck it it's only twenty pence and the coinage required to furnish me with change would be like swimming with lead weights. You may think it's weird asking for 20p change, when in the great scheme of things I was wasting rubber and the ozone layer at an alarming rate, the cost of which on my return to blighty would severely hamper my beer drinking opportunities for many months, but Johnny Lire was a tricky bugger to get your head round. Oh Yes!
We all pulled back into the autostrada super highway and shortly thereafter took a slip road into some low hills adjacent to the motorway hoping to find a snug little B&B or something.
Twenty miles further down the road we rejoined the main artery having had no luck and pulled in eventually at a hotel sign pointing to a little place entitled Voglia Del Plans. The hotel was just up the road opposite a ramshackle garage, quite a grand old looking building faded somewhat but it had a suitable gentrified air about it, family ran, no glitz or neon just old style comfort and faded velvet. We landed and streched our fly spattered leather limbs. There were some other bikers in residence which was a good sign, Germans by the look of their plates, their rear tyres had been given a workout. Fair play to the Hun.
The first thing I noticed as we trouped into the lobby was a prominent sign saying 'No credit cards' in five different languages. We'd just done the last of our cash filling up with juice up the road, because the majority of gas stations didn't accept credit cards either. Basically on the strength of that notice we wouldn't be able to pay for the room and beers the next morning. Still that was tomorrow and we needed a place to stay, we'd work it out tomorrow, if they got the strop with us at least we'd be washed, probably slightly hungover and rested. We stayed mum and the aged crone was eager for the business as far as we could work out. A quick dumping of our sparse baggage, into crumpled civvies and to the bar for painfully small glasses of yellow beer. Refreshing to know we had made it. Tomorrow was the day!
Monday 1 October 2007
kawasaki ZX6R
2007 Kawasaki ZX6R
This is the second brand new bike I have had the pleasure to ride in as many weeks, some deity must be smiling down on me granting me this little slice of two wheeled action.
This weeks steed was the ’07 Kawasaki ZX6R, the latest generation of middleweight sports fare from the big K.
Like most models that are popular they are built on a fine pedigree and a winning package. This incarnation of salacious horsepower perfection is no different.
I believe Kawasaki started the relatively modern trend for 600cc machines with the (for then) stunning GPZ600R A1 back in the mid eighties. Time has moved on and the latest crop of bikes deliver such staggering performance that it is partially responsible for the death knell sonorously sounding over sports 750cc models. (Suzuki excepted at present).
It’s been a while since I rode a 600, the last one, again, a Kawasaki J1 model, this was a quick bike and great for the track days I was able to do at the time, it used to howl and you could feel the fuel tank vibrating between your knees as the air box beneath pressurized and forced fast air down its gullet and into the vitals of the bike.
The new one however has moved on since then, appearing as a 636 configuration through the B and C models to its present incarnation as a true 600cc bike again.
The salesman said, ‘you’ve got to rev it, don’t worry about being heavy handed with the throttle’ he then set the natty gear shift indicator light to 15,000, and briefly showed me the various functions on the standard digi clocks.
A real nice feature was the gear indicator display. I’m one of those people who have championed this feature for years, ever since I test rode a GSX550 ESD as a spotty 17 year old, blagging a go from the motors rep at the newspaper I was working at the time. He had been given it to test but he registered zero interest in it.
I’ve been ridiculed and pilloried from some quarters, with the gist of it being ‘well you should no what gear you are in’ but I’m one of those people who will keep changing up until there are none left, constantly seeking seventh gear, only really counting down for roundabouts or cogging down when the motor appears to be losing puff for the conditions ridden in. Anyway I’m wittering, Gear indicators - a bloody good idea in my book!
I did make a mental note of the lap timer toggle switches musing as to where I could utilise it, but time was short. The salesman bade me a hasty farewell, he had a motocrosser to thrash and was late.
I smoked and cast a beady eye around the bike grasping for an overwhelming first impression to communicate.
It seemed simultaneously curvy, perhaps read ergonomic but angular at the same time, it sounds stupid I know but that’s the conclusion I came too.
The screen was tinted and stippled at the base to hide the back of the clocks; the twin headlights were small and perfectly formed though the attention to fairing fit around the top corners I think should be addressed on the 2008 model. I can’t see any reason why the inner shroud needs to be seen when the sleek and shiny outer carapace could hide it.
The maw of the central air vent reminded me of the aperture of the helm of a Nazgul in the recent LOR’s trilogy (it was on last night), with a delightful arrowhead shaped running light sealing the front fairing design. It looked sharp and ready to rock.
There was the usual UD forks (non nitrided) now standard fare on modern sports bikes, mono block brakes and wavy discs (which were awesome when called into action), Most talk will be about how fast this bike is, but a mention of how fast it decelerates is also worthy of a mention. Hollow large diameter spindles pierce meagre spoked wheels on proper wide rims, well hidden catalytic converter, laughable pillion seat plus practical and lawful rear end complete with LED rear light and stalked indicators.
The Zed 1000 I had ridden the week before came equipped with Dunlop qualifiers and I couldn’t fault them. I was surprised to find the Six wearing a set of Bridgestone Battlax’s 016 front 015 rear, I couldn’t fault them either, especially as I found myself on the way home not noticing the mild drizzle and greasy road surface, absorbed as I was in pushing the Six along, enjoying the experience.
I jumped on board and thumbed the starter after the clocks had set themselves, immediately noticing the spread of the mirrors. They looked slightly incongruous at first not quite fitting the lines of the top fairing, but there was no doubt that you could actually see out of them once ensconced onboard. A quick adjustment was all that was needed. I waited for the temp gauge to register 45 and then slowly moved into the evening commuter traffic, telling myself ‘to take it easy, make sure the tyres are warm, test the brakes before you need to use them in anger’
The style of late has been to make sports bikes smaller and smaller. Good idea in terms of performance but what about the tall people?
All I can say is that Kawasaki must have given it a bit of thought (good on ‘em), this is after all a road bike despite it’s race track pretensions and will sell in large numbers to the predominantly North American and European market, and we’re getting bigger by all accounts, wider because of all the rubbish we shovel down our throats and taller because human physiognomy is shaking off the debilitating effect of gravity.
The Six is a triumph of comfort for its class. The seat wasn’t that hard, the footpegs were perfecto and though I suffered at first with a little wrist ache the bars were positioned damned near to perfect as well. (If it didn’t interfere with the leverage/fairing clearance I would adjust the factory set position of the lever assemblies further down which I think would ease the pain of this little niggle). If I had the money to pour gasoline into it’s hungry belly I could quite happily lob a double bubble screen on the thing as well and score a few miles under my belt touring, it was that good.
The throttle felt like it had a little too much slack and when pulling away a conscious effort had to be made to rev and slightly slip the clutch as otherwise it felt like it was bogging down.
I found a few stretches of open road and started to explore the potential of the bike. Quoted at 125-130 horses there was no doubting the straight line speed, the bike wailing up to its shift ceiling in the early gears, with a very tall first gear, (presumably for race track purposes), it must have sounded terrific.
The suspension settings were perfect, neutral and a piece of er. ..cake to flick through some tight esses on the way home, it felt like the quickest I had ever sailed round these particular bends. The bars wobbled a little as the front went light a few times, but nothing really to phase me, it just happened, settled down immediately planting it’s front paw print back on the ground unfussily letting me proceed with the action.
I soon realised that the salesman advice was spot on, you had to rev the thing to get the most out of it, but it seemed to like it the more you did, the more it was appreciated by the bike itself, with its very urgent get up and go. A glutton for punishment! I only hit the rev limiter once however, proving that mere mortals (and vain ones at that) would struggle to get bored of this machine.
Naturally this enjoyment doesn’t come cheap, I’m sure tyres would soon get worn out, standard 120 and 180 fitments, the stickier the compound the better, heavy braking would not be an uncommon occurrence I venture and it did have a terrible thirst on the first night at least. I only managed 100 miles from a brimful tank which improved as the days rolled by peaking at about 120 miles average, I guess gusto and enthusiasm burns more fuel than day to day riding.
The fuel tank holds 13 quids worth from halfway through the fuel low warning zone to full. Tank capacity not surprising really was not huge, it was relatively narrow and I’m sure the capacious air box beneath would be taking up a large amount of the perceived space.
The rear pillion seat once removed reveals no cavity, just a neatly packaged tool kit. I didn’t manage to remove the riders perch, but don’t be surprised to find no room under there either. With the factory c/m rear seat cover emplaced, luggage carrying potential is negligible despite the hooks fitted to the underside of the rear fender more out of a token nod to practicality than anything else.
I managed just over 300 miles in three days before I had to give it back which is not a bad average and I believe qualifies me to talk from a reasonably informed perspective.
You can buy one in stealth bomber black, raving in your face orange (though I’m not sure what the correct factory term for this vivid shade is) and green Natch!
Kawasaki offer a wide range of quality factory accessories, slip on mufflers abound for that authentic race bike look and howl, though I struggle to find a reason as to why you would want to change the originals, other than maybe a weight issue or to bypass the cat if you are a serial track day header. Some carbon fibre panels instead of the factory plastic ones would look the biz, a quick call to Mr. R&G for a tail tidy would tidy the back end up and maybe a hugger if used every day would complete the package for me.
I’ve no idea what the servicing costs would be, but just consider how much a car with similar performance would cost you to buy and run.
The ZX6 is soooo cheap to buy, incredibly exciting to ride and looks the dogz.
I’m sure the CBR6 and the Gixer are equally as good and the R6 is going to be revamped for 2008, but until I ride one I can only speak for the Kawasaki, and if you are prepared to engage urgent attack mode the Kawasaki will not let you down.
Anybody want to gainsay any of my thoughts? Your views are welcome,
Post a review and tell me different.
Now we really must talk about that ZX-10R…….
Once again skiploads of thanx to the top geezers at Alf’s Motorcycles http://www.alfsmotorcycles.co.uk/ for trusting me with another one of their bikes Check the pix on their site of the Dream Machine Moto GP liveried replica.
This is the second brand new bike I have had the pleasure to ride in as many weeks, some deity must be smiling down on me granting me this little slice of two wheeled action.
This weeks steed was the ’07 Kawasaki ZX6R, the latest generation of middleweight sports fare from the big K.
Like most models that are popular they are built on a fine pedigree and a winning package. This incarnation of salacious horsepower perfection is no different.
I believe Kawasaki started the relatively modern trend for 600cc machines with the (for then) stunning GPZ600R A1 back in the mid eighties. Time has moved on and the latest crop of bikes deliver such staggering performance that it is partially responsible for the death knell sonorously sounding over sports 750cc models. (Suzuki excepted at present).
It’s been a while since I rode a 600, the last one, again, a Kawasaki J1 model, this was a quick bike and great for the track days I was able to do at the time, it used to howl and you could feel the fuel tank vibrating between your knees as the air box beneath pressurized and forced fast air down its gullet and into the vitals of the bike.
The new one however has moved on since then, appearing as a 636 configuration through the B and C models to its present incarnation as a true 600cc bike again.
The salesman said, ‘you’ve got to rev it, don’t worry about being heavy handed with the throttle’ he then set the natty gear shift indicator light to 15,000, and briefly showed me the various functions on the standard digi clocks.
A real nice feature was the gear indicator display. I’m one of those people who have championed this feature for years, ever since I test rode a GSX550 ESD as a spotty 17 year old, blagging a go from the motors rep at the newspaper I was working at the time. He had been given it to test but he registered zero interest in it.
I’ve been ridiculed and pilloried from some quarters, with the gist of it being ‘well you should no what gear you are in’ but I’m one of those people who will keep changing up until there are none left, constantly seeking seventh gear, only really counting down for roundabouts or cogging down when the motor appears to be losing puff for the conditions ridden in. Anyway I’m wittering, Gear indicators - a bloody good idea in my book!
I did make a mental note of the lap timer toggle switches musing as to where I could utilise it, but time was short. The salesman bade me a hasty farewell, he had a motocrosser to thrash and was late.
I smoked and cast a beady eye around the bike grasping for an overwhelming first impression to communicate.
It seemed simultaneously curvy, perhaps read ergonomic but angular at the same time, it sounds stupid I know but that’s the conclusion I came too.
The screen was tinted and stippled at the base to hide the back of the clocks; the twin headlights were small and perfectly formed though the attention to fairing fit around the top corners I think should be addressed on the 2008 model. I can’t see any reason why the inner shroud needs to be seen when the sleek and shiny outer carapace could hide it.
The maw of the central air vent reminded me of the aperture of the helm of a Nazgul in the recent LOR’s trilogy (it was on last night), with a delightful arrowhead shaped running light sealing the front fairing design. It looked sharp and ready to rock.
There was the usual UD forks (non nitrided) now standard fare on modern sports bikes, mono block brakes and wavy discs (which were awesome when called into action), Most talk will be about how fast this bike is, but a mention of how fast it decelerates is also worthy of a mention. Hollow large diameter spindles pierce meagre spoked wheels on proper wide rims, well hidden catalytic converter, laughable pillion seat plus practical and lawful rear end complete with LED rear light and stalked indicators.
The Zed 1000 I had ridden the week before came equipped with Dunlop qualifiers and I couldn’t fault them. I was surprised to find the Six wearing a set of Bridgestone Battlax’s 016 front 015 rear, I couldn’t fault them either, especially as I found myself on the way home not noticing the mild drizzle and greasy road surface, absorbed as I was in pushing the Six along, enjoying the experience.
I jumped on board and thumbed the starter after the clocks had set themselves, immediately noticing the spread of the mirrors. They looked slightly incongruous at first not quite fitting the lines of the top fairing, but there was no doubt that you could actually see out of them once ensconced onboard. A quick adjustment was all that was needed. I waited for the temp gauge to register 45 and then slowly moved into the evening commuter traffic, telling myself ‘to take it easy, make sure the tyres are warm, test the brakes before you need to use them in anger’
The style of late has been to make sports bikes smaller and smaller. Good idea in terms of performance but what about the tall people?
All I can say is that Kawasaki must have given it a bit of thought (good on ‘em), this is after all a road bike despite it’s race track pretensions and will sell in large numbers to the predominantly North American and European market, and we’re getting bigger by all accounts, wider because of all the rubbish we shovel down our throats and taller because human physiognomy is shaking off the debilitating effect of gravity.
The Six is a triumph of comfort for its class. The seat wasn’t that hard, the footpegs were perfecto and though I suffered at first with a little wrist ache the bars were positioned damned near to perfect as well. (If it didn’t interfere with the leverage/fairing clearance I would adjust the factory set position of the lever assemblies further down which I think would ease the pain of this little niggle). If I had the money to pour gasoline into it’s hungry belly I could quite happily lob a double bubble screen on the thing as well and score a few miles under my belt touring, it was that good.
The throttle felt like it had a little too much slack and when pulling away a conscious effort had to be made to rev and slightly slip the clutch as otherwise it felt like it was bogging down.
I found a few stretches of open road and started to explore the potential of the bike. Quoted at 125-130 horses there was no doubting the straight line speed, the bike wailing up to its shift ceiling in the early gears, with a very tall first gear, (presumably for race track purposes), it must have sounded terrific.
The suspension settings were perfect, neutral and a piece of er. ..cake to flick through some tight esses on the way home, it felt like the quickest I had ever sailed round these particular bends. The bars wobbled a little as the front went light a few times, but nothing really to phase me, it just happened, settled down immediately planting it’s front paw print back on the ground unfussily letting me proceed with the action.
I soon realised that the salesman advice was spot on, you had to rev the thing to get the most out of it, but it seemed to like it the more you did, the more it was appreciated by the bike itself, with its very urgent get up and go. A glutton for punishment! I only hit the rev limiter once however, proving that mere mortals (and vain ones at that) would struggle to get bored of this machine.
Naturally this enjoyment doesn’t come cheap, I’m sure tyres would soon get worn out, standard 120 and 180 fitments, the stickier the compound the better, heavy braking would not be an uncommon occurrence I venture and it did have a terrible thirst on the first night at least. I only managed 100 miles from a brimful tank which improved as the days rolled by peaking at about 120 miles average, I guess gusto and enthusiasm burns more fuel than day to day riding.
The fuel tank holds 13 quids worth from halfway through the fuel low warning zone to full. Tank capacity not surprising really was not huge, it was relatively narrow and I’m sure the capacious air box beneath would be taking up a large amount of the perceived space.
The rear pillion seat once removed reveals no cavity, just a neatly packaged tool kit. I didn’t manage to remove the riders perch, but don’t be surprised to find no room under there either. With the factory c/m rear seat cover emplaced, luggage carrying potential is negligible despite the hooks fitted to the underside of the rear fender more out of a token nod to practicality than anything else.
I managed just over 300 miles in three days before I had to give it back which is not a bad average and I believe qualifies me to talk from a reasonably informed perspective.
You can buy one in stealth bomber black, raving in your face orange (though I’m not sure what the correct factory term for this vivid shade is) and green Natch!
Kawasaki offer a wide range of quality factory accessories, slip on mufflers abound for that authentic race bike look and howl, though I struggle to find a reason as to why you would want to change the originals, other than maybe a weight issue or to bypass the cat if you are a serial track day header. Some carbon fibre panels instead of the factory plastic ones would look the biz, a quick call to Mr. R&G for a tail tidy would tidy the back end up and maybe a hugger if used every day would complete the package for me.
I’ve no idea what the servicing costs would be, but just consider how much a car with similar performance would cost you to buy and run.
The ZX6 is soooo cheap to buy, incredibly exciting to ride and looks the dogz.
I’m sure the CBR6 and the Gixer are equally as good and the R6 is going to be revamped for 2008, but until I ride one I can only speak for the Kawasaki, and if you are prepared to engage urgent attack mode the Kawasaki will not let you down.
Anybody want to gainsay any of my thoughts? Your views are welcome,
Post a review and tell me different.
Now we really must talk about that ZX-10R…….
Once again skiploads of thanx to the top geezers at Alf’s Motorcycles http://www.alfsmotorcycles.co.uk/ for trusting me with another one of their bikes Check the pix on their site of the Dream Machine Moto GP liveried replica.
For more reviews go here http://www.ukbike.com/Reviews.aspx
You can post a review on the mother site and claim a luvverly free t-shirt 
Gixer Reviews
Doby Trutcenden 28.9.07
‘Being shot out of a cannon will always be better than being squeezed out of a tube. That is why God made fast motorcycles’ HST Generation of swine
Doby Trutcenden 28.9.07
‘Being shot out of a cannon will always be better than being squeezed out of a tube. That is why God made fast motorcycles’ HST Generation of swine
Friday 28 September 2007
Chapter 8 - The road from Verona to Modena
The sun was hot, my jacket was off and I lounged on the grassy bank between the gas station and the main road, this vantage point gave me a perfect view of the road I had just come down and where Phil and Ed should be coming down soon. Strictly speking I should be able to hear them before I saw them, but I could flail my arms wildly to further attract their attention.
Approx an hour later on cue I hear the bassy drone of some high revving big twins and spot Phil crunched up behind his double bubble screen giving it the large. 'Fast Eddie not far behind. Phil boomed past ignoring my impotent arm flailing, Ed however indicated and pulled in. One down, now we were two, but Phil was shifting and decreasing to a speccy drone in the distance with a red light in the middle. Blimey he was paying partial attention and noticed Ed was no longer behind him, He'd obviously braked hard, I was jumping up and down muttering profanities, he was about half a mile away.
The next thing we knew, he's driving back to us, up the wrong side of the carraigeway, up the exit ramp against the traffic back into the station grinning like a mischevious school boy. We were three, the TL triumvirete road train was once more restored.
We harangued each other for at least ten minutes. They had realized I was absent soon after exiting the lay-by back in Austria and went back to look for me (apparentley) which was strange as I'm sure we would have noticed each other, they turned round again and re-retraced their tyre marks, quick to notice the fork in the road that I had turned down, I speculated that in their horsepower greedhead mode they had originally sailed straight past this junction and by the time they had turned round and come back I had passed through and turned off. By the time they had inadvertantedly found the correct route I was about eighty miles down the road.
My phone call had been opportune and perfectly timed. They were gassing up wandering what to do next, 'ring ring' difficult decision averted. They had also encountered the same ribbon of slow moving traffic that I had, hence Phil's impatience as the road opened up before him.
Phil had got the bit between his teeth and had wound the TLS up to max, stressed with the seemingly apalling slow progress (sub 80mph apparently) Thank goodness Ed had listened to my instructions, chucking on the anchors just in time to intercept at the given location.
We ate ice creams on a glorious summer early afternoon, the sussuration of wide tyred big touring cars and motor homes swooshing past us heading south,.Re-united we all studied the map for the next stage of the journey. Once more the TL road train was ready to rock and roll.
We would cover the next 60 miles or so out of the mountainous north Italian border country into the flood plain of the lowlands and drove through to Modena. The road from Verona to Modena was an A road and not fast autostrada. One sustained blast and if we overshot, into Bologna where that ubiquitous spag bol owes its existence, but more importantly the desmodromic V-twin heart of the crimson devil.
The relatively parochial neighbourhood of multi world championship winning 851, 888 and 916's second home to that wild eyed Englishman with sunken staring sockets cold cruel eyes sweeping aggresively aside all before him - Mister Fogarty. Duelling the best in the world on the way to four magnificent World Superbike titles. The Ducati factory where many had made pilgramage and paid homage. We were renegades in this country, no pure blood thoroughbred with their temperament and foibles amongst us. No time for whimsy and starry eyes, our thousand yard stares were not into space but the next corner. We had a mission to accomplish, and fast.
The road was a revelation, I tell yea! We barely touched the ground as we scorched across the flatlands. Their dual carraigeway was A road still but with fuck all traffic on it. There was sporadic and token cars along its length but for all intents and purpose empty. We cruised around the 130mph mark getting bored and occasionally blasting up to 150 overtaking each other.
No joke this black ribbon was flat, smooth straight and went on for about 60 miles or more, we made it in no time at all - funnily enough! By this time the visibility was dropping, turning greyer and with a misting of precipitance in the air, the road surface had a slight sheen and I could feel the bike start to move about as the contact patch was minimal at that sort of speed, I could feel myself breathing, ragged breaths echoing around inside my lid as I kept the TLR screwed tight.
Approx an hour later on cue I hear the bassy drone of some high revving big twins and spot Phil crunched up behind his double bubble screen giving it the large. 'Fast Eddie not far behind. Phil boomed past ignoring my impotent arm flailing, Ed however indicated and pulled in. One down, now we were two, but Phil was shifting and decreasing to a speccy drone in the distance with a red light in the middle. Blimey he was paying partial attention and noticed Ed was no longer behind him, He'd obviously braked hard, I was jumping up and down muttering profanities, he was about half a mile away.
The next thing we knew, he's driving back to us, up the wrong side of the carraigeway, up the exit ramp against the traffic back into the station grinning like a mischevious school boy. We were three, the TL triumvirete road train was once more restored.
We harangued each other for at least ten minutes. They had realized I was absent soon after exiting the lay-by back in Austria and went back to look for me (apparentley) which was strange as I'm sure we would have noticed each other, they turned round again and re-retraced their tyre marks, quick to notice the fork in the road that I had turned down, I speculated that in their horsepower greedhead mode they had originally sailed straight past this junction and by the time they had turned round and come back I had passed through and turned off. By the time they had inadvertantedly found the correct route I was about eighty miles down the road.
My phone call had been opportune and perfectly timed. They were gassing up wandering what to do next, 'ring ring' difficult decision averted. They had also encountered the same ribbon of slow moving traffic that I had, hence Phil's impatience as the road opened up before him.
Phil had got the bit between his teeth and had wound the TLS up to max, stressed with the seemingly apalling slow progress (sub 80mph apparently) Thank goodness Ed had listened to my instructions, chucking on the anchors just in time to intercept at the given location.
We ate ice creams on a glorious summer early afternoon, the sussuration of wide tyred big touring cars and motor homes swooshing past us heading south,.Re-united we all studied the map for the next stage of the journey. Once more the TL road train was ready to rock and roll.
We would cover the next 60 miles or so out of the mountainous north Italian border country into the flood plain of the lowlands and drove through to Modena. The road from Verona to Modena was an A road and not fast autostrada. One sustained blast and if we overshot, into Bologna where that ubiquitous spag bol owes its existence, but more importantly the desmodromic V-twin heart of the crimson devil.
The relatively parochial neighbourhood of multi world championship winning 851, 888 and 916's second home to that wild eyed Englishman with sunken staring sockets cold cruel eyes sweeping aggresively aside all before him - Mister Fogarty. Duelling the best in the world on the way to four magnificent World Superbike titles. The Ducati factory where many had made pilgramage and paid homage. We were renegades in this country, no pure blood thoroughbred with their temperament and foibles amongst us. No time for whimsy and starry eyes, our thousand yard stares were not into space but the next corner. We had a mission to accomplish, and fast.
The road was a revelation, I tell yea! We barely touched the ground as we scorched across the flatlands. Their dual carraigeway was A road still but with fuck all traffic on it. There was sporadic and token cars along its length but for all intents and purpose empty. We cruised around the 130mph mark getting bored and occasionally blasting up to 150 overtaking each other.
No joke this black ribbon was flat, smooth straight and went on for about 60 miles or more, we made it in no time at all - funnily enough! By this time the visibility was dropping, turning greyer and with a misting of precipitance in the air, the road surface had a slight sheen and I could feel the bike start to move about as the contact patch was minimal at that sort of speed, I could feel myself breathing, ragged breaths echoing around inside my lid as I kept the TLR screwed tight.
Thursday 20 September 2007
Chapter 7 - Onto Mugello
Austria is a relatively slim country and it wasn't long before we were approaching the out side. We had ridden for a couple of hours through superb scenery, high mountains with snow caps, pine lined roads twisting and turning (too much traffic though). We stopped just short of the border in a tourist pull in area all gravel, full of coaches, camera happy tourists and discarded cigarette butts..
It was obviously a popular spot for bikers to have a smoke break etc. We parked up and sparked up, I had a quick glance at the map (which was luckily in my posession, the other two eschewing the need for one, but I had smugly noticed the absence of any reference to the bullshit sheaf of AA instructions on Eddie's part).
Onwards across the border, through the Brenner pass and int Italy. It was about midday.
A quick tyre check, bungee tension OK, enough gas and we were off again.
Phil and Eddie leapt into the steady stream of traffic and were gone, disappearing aroung the first corner already looking for overtaking opportunities. I could have pulled out after them but didn't fancy being flattened by the weight of traffic steamrollering down the road. It seemed like an age before I managed to nip into the metal snake. I knew both Phil and Eddie probably wouldn't notice my absence, they would only be interested in what was in front of them and what needed overtaking. It was a sort of unwritten rule that we were all obliged to keep up with each other. It was my job to catch them up. We all knew where we were going and when they did notice my absence they should ease the pace a little to allow me to catch up.
They must have treally put the hammer down, because I was getting quite lary weaving in and out of the traffic thinking I'll see them round the next corner, but no, they had gone.
A short while after it was decision time, the signs pointed me to a slip road which would take me onto the main autoroute leading me to the Brenner Pass. Still no sign of the others, perhaps they would be at the gates to the Pass?, still no time to procrastinate or ponder, no opportunity to pull over, had to go for it, so down the slip road I went with no sign of Phil and Ed.
As I accellerated off the slip road (by now at least 20 klicks from the last stop) I thought that if they didn't want to stop they would at least ease their pace a bit. Time to get behind the screen and play the big video game. One eye on the whirring dials and one eye on the road ahead praying that the Old Bill weren't about.
I had to re-entry back to relative earth speed when the toll barrier loomed which was the gateway through the Brenner Pass. Surely they would be on the other side of this, if they hadn't noticed my absence by now stationary and rummaging for grubby coinage something must have gone awry. Eddie would almost certainly be chain smoking on the other side. They weren't there, no sign, absence of TL-age
This was bad news, A it meant the bastards were quicker than I thought (which is no comfort to a vain aero space age warrior), they had gone a different way or they had just carried on expecting me to catch up. The only unplanned bit was where were we gonna stay when we got close to Mugello still another six hours away. 'Fuck it' time to get in touch, they both had mobile phones on board. I in my utter confidence prior to the trip decided I didn't need one, si I found a phone booth in a nearby cafe/auberge and dialled them up. Aftre three attempts at contact from the poxy payphone I slammed the phone down in frustration and decided to ride on. Whatever happened they would have to come this way and if somehow they were behind me they would come across me, they wouldn't be hanging about thats for sure.
The Brenner pass is a major gateway to the lowlands of Northern Italy when you leave the mountains and once again the scenery did not disappoint. I managed to drink it all in whilst heading for Bozen where once again the traffic strted to build up. I forgot about my wayward companions, striking out nomad like for a while, spending the next hour or so high speed filtering between the slow moving traffic heading South. It was at least eighty miles or so before I learnt the reason why. It was also the gateway to the North Italian lake district, all the camper wagons and fat touring cars turned right at signs for Lake Delgardo, junction passed and the road opened up again. Time to try and raise 'TL' and 'Fast' again, fuck knows where they were by now but it had to be done, the situation was turning messy.
I pulled into an Agip filling station for juice and found a phone that would take a credit card and charge me bizarrely in American dollars. With the credit card at least it meant I could keep trying until I got through to speak to them (unlikely) or leave a message.
Thank god for the Dollar charging scenario, the Lire was a nightmare currency and I was down to my last thousand or so (which equated to about fourpence or something meaningless and rediculous) woefully inadequate local funds for an embarkation into international sattelite bouncing mobile phone wizardry.
The first call I made produced a ringing tone then cut me off. I vowed to be patient, trying to decipher the hieroglyphics in the booth and try again. Same result. Time for some radical bullshitting. I rang the international operator and told her that the poxy phone was haemorrhaging my dosh and demanded that she try for me. Seconds later I was miraculously talking to Phil, who was filling up ironically.
Bingo!! I was a bit pissed off with them for fucking off into the blue yonder and explained where I was. They were approx eighty miles behind me on the same road (quite how we didn't notice each other en route I don't know).
I told them where I was. Look out for a massive blue roadsign saying 30KMs to Verona and then shortly afterwards the Agip filling station off the slip road. 'I'll be in there, it's about an hour away'
It was easy and straightforward, just keep coming, read the road. I settled down to eat Italian ice cream, smoke and study the map in the pleasant afternoon sunshine.
It was obviously a popular spot for bikers to have a smoke break etc. We parked up and sparked up, I had a quick glance at the map (which was luckily in my posession, the other two eschewing the need for one, but I had smugly noticed the absence of any reference to the bullshit sheaf of AA instructions on Eddie's part).
Onwards across the border, through the Brenner pass and int Italy. It was about midday.
A quick tyre check, bungee tension OK, enough gas and we were off again.
Phil and Eddie leapt into the steady stream of traffic and were gone, disappearing aroung the first corner already looking for overtaking opportunities. I could have pulled out after them but didn't fancy being flattened by the weight of traffic steamrollering down the road. It seemed like an age before I managed to nip into the metal snake. I knew both Phil and Eddie probably wouldn't notice my absence, they would only be interested in what was in front of them and what needed overtaking. It was a sort of unwritten rule that we were all obliged to keep up with each other. It was my job to catch them up. We all knew where we were going and when they did notice my absence they should ease the pace a little to allow me to catch up.
They must have treally put the hammer down, because I was getting quite lary weaving in and out of the traffic thinking I'll see them round the next corner, but no, they had gone.
A short while after it was decision time, the signs pointed me to a slip road which would take me onto the main autoroute leading me to the Brenner Pass. Still no sign of the others, perhaps they would be at the gates to the Pass?, still no time to procrastinate or ponder, no opportunity to pull over, had to go for it, so down the slip road I went with no sign of Phil and Ed.
As I accellerated off the slip road (by now at least 20 klicks from the last stop) I thought that if they didn't want to stop they would at least ease their pace a bit. Time to get behind the screen and play the big video game. One eye on the whirring dials and one eye on the road ahead praying that the Old Bill weren't about.
I had to re-entry back to relative earth speed when the toll barrier loomed which was the gateway through the Brenner Pass. Surely they would be on the other side of this, if they hadn't noticed my absence by now stationary and rummaging for grubby coinage something must have gone awry. Eddie would almost certainly be chain smoking on the other side. They weren't there, no sign, absence of TL-age
This was bad news, A it meant the bastards were quicker than I thought (which is no comfort to a vain aero space age warrior), they had gone a different way or they had just carried on expecting me to catch up. The only unplanned bit was where were we gonna stay when we got close to Mugello still another six hours away. 'Fuck it' time to get in touch, they both had mobile phones on board. I in my utter confidence prior to the trip decided I didn't need one, si I found a phone booth in a nearby cafe/auberge and dialled them up. Aftre three attempts at contact from the poxy payphone I slammed the phone down in frustration and decided to ride on. Whatever happened they would have to come this way and if somehow they were behind me they would come across me, they wouldn't be hanging about thats for sure.
The Brenner pass is a major gateway to the lowlands of Northern Italy when you leave the mountains and once again the scenery did not disappoint. I managed to drink it all in whilst heading for Bozen where once again the traffic strted to build up. I forgot about my wayward companions, striking out nomad like for a while, spending the next hour or so high speed filtering between the slow moving traffic heading South. It was at least eighty miles or so before I learnt the reason why. It was also the gateway to the North Italian lake district, all the camper wagons and fat touring cars turned right at signs for Lake Delgardo, junction passed and the road opened up again. Time to try and raise 'TL' and 'Fast' again, fuck knows where they were by now but it had to be done, the situation was turning messy.
I pulled into an Agip filling station for juice and found a phone that would take a credit card and charge me bizarrely in American dollars. With the credit card at least it meant I could keep trying until I got through to speak to them (unlikely) or leave a message.
Thank god for the Dollar charging scenario, the Lire was a nightmare currency and I was down to my last thousand or so (which equated to about fourpence or something meaningless and rediculous) woefully inadequate local funds for an embarkation into international sattelite bouncing mobile phone wizardry.
The first call I made produced a ringing tone then cut me off. I vowed to be patient, trying to decipher the hieroglyphics in the booth and try again. Same result. Time for some radical bullshitting. I rang the international operator and told her that the poxy phone was haemorrhaging my dosh and demanded that she try for me. Seconds later I was miraculously talking to Phil, who was filling up ironically.
Bingo!! I was a bit pissed off with them for fucking off into the blue yonder and explained where I was. They were approx eighty miles behind me on the same road (quite how we didn't notice each other en route I don't know).
I told them where I was. Look out for a massive blue roadsign saying 30KMs to Verona and then shortly afterwards the Agip filling station off the slip road. 'I'll be in there, it's about an hour away'
It was easy and straightforward, just keep coming, read the road. I settled down to eat Italian ice cream, smoke and study the map in the pleasant afternoon sunshine.
Tuesday 18 September 2007
A little something for Endurance racing fans
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The '07 Bol d'or wound up at the weekend with much ado throughout the race. Mucho incidents apparently, with both BMW's expiring along with the hub centre steered Suzuki, the Macdonalds sponsored MV and the Duke, leaving it the top privateer team GMT 94 to take the race win after 14 years of trying.
Team Alf's endurance Racing had to retire early Saturday night due to ongoing niggly mechanical problems, If there was an award for effort and meticulous preparation the Sussex based squad deserve all the plaudits. you can view pix here from John 'more than two cylinders is just plain greedy' Brookes.
I was fortunate enough to have been involved in the April Le Mans race whith Team Alfs. Unfortunately they didn't fare much better there, but I did scribble a race report which still hasn't seen the light of day yet so though not of the moment you can read it now, hopefully it will paint a picture of what I think is the hardest motorcycle road racing discipline there is.
If you want to learn more about endurance racing, you might as well get it from the horse's mouth. link to the Race Corporation here. Official site of the Eurosport race commentator.
Will endeavour to post up chapter 7 of the road trip soon, but I thought all you long suffering readers might want a break before you get too bored so here's something else to get your teeth into
In the meantime read on messiuers et madames (be warned it's a bit of a long one)
View from the greenhouse (revisited)
One more account to add to the others I’ve written about this event.
Its (if I was honest) a parochial tale which was not my intention but none the less I feel the need to relay it as it came out from my head to my trembling fingers or is that tremens fingers? Hard to tell at the time
A tale of cacophonous motorized harmonies. Strange and oddly hued vapors, top speed and light smears. Pallid faces in the dead of night. Toil, blood, sweat, swearing, fatigue and insomnia.
For this is a tale of three days on the Red Eye Express. Sweeping us along to its destination. The 2007 24 hour endurance race held at the circuit De Bugatti, Le Mans France. A name synonymous for 24 hour events of both two and four wheeled varieties. An international brand and a most prestigious event. One which all who have been at the sharp end of this form of motorcycle racing hold their head up high and describe the event with a little awe and lashings of pride.
I was proud to be part of this years event, kindly asked by Team Alf’s Endurance, (a local team to me from Worthing West Sussex) if I could help them out again this year.
My immediate response was count me in, though in previous years like my worst hang over I usually vow never again. But it’s the excitement, the living on the high side, the buzz, Motorcycle racing, I felt fortunate to be invited along to the party
Alf’s who in previous years had mustered names such as John McGuinness, Chris Burns, the late great Gus Scott and Ronnie Smith, this year had managed to secure the services of X men look-alike and all round fantastic geezer who is tipped to topple John McGuinness from his all time great status (amongst many other notables throughout TT history)at The Island this year. Bring it on for Mr. Guy Martin.
Accompanying him were two rising stars in the Superstox and Supersport arenas Adam Jenkinson and Craig Fitzpatrick. The mount was an ‘07 ZX-10R which was equipped for Super Production racing, (check out the pix), it’s a bloody gorgeous thing kicking out 170hp at the wheel and weighing in at about 165 kilos. A serious contender in the class and a threat to any betting.
That’s the beauty of this racing. Not only have you got to be fast but you have to remain fast for hours and hours and hours, round and round and round…. It gives all teams a fair crack of the whip.
But, I’m ahead of myself we hadn’t even started yet. We had to get there first. Five of us in a mobile home equipped with some excellent loudspeakers amongst it’s mod cons courtesy of Chris ‘frosty bollox’ Frost. He had bought the previous year’s bike from Alf and was checking out this year’s race from the Team involvement angle.
Over the water and then Approx 200 miles south of Dieppe
Naturally we were all excited and revved up on the ferry meeting up with a contingent of bikers corralled together by previous 24 hour rider ‘Mickman’ who works at the Alf’s Kawasaki franchise. He had volunteered to organize a road trip down to the circuit with a posse of customers to enjoy the Le Mans experience. Loads of new 10‘s a couple of ZX6‘s a Gixer, a brace of R1’s a Triumph Daytona with Mick and his wife on the ZZR1400, it made me all misty eyed and I wished I had polished up the venerable ‘9‘ and was accompanying them by bike.
How many beers later and at what hideous hour I crawled into the sack for what seemed like a scant minute I cannot tell, but the sun was soon up and my eyes hurt and my brain was inert for the journey through France. Uneventful until we arrived at the circuit.
Getting in is frankly a right bastard, there seems to be about ten entry points for the soon to be great unwashed which we had to ‘trouver’ via the myriad signage and swarms of bikes. Each official was resolutely ‘non, non, monsieur’ sending us around several houses and up shed loads of garden paths until, finally with explicit instructions from Alf and a little belligerence we breached the outer ring and made our way into the circuit.
We were stopped in sight of the garages by a mustachioed dwarf who was resolutely determined to stop us. I tried to be diplomatic, explaining in simple terms that we were with a team, with a proper garage and that space had been reserved for us. The ‘Accueil’ had given us all the passes available. But ‘non’ it was not enough.
Now faced with steadfast refusal like this knowing he was mistaken started to really piss me off and when he told me to ‘en couler’ that was it. Frosty parked the camper in the road and I marched off to find the head fromage and Alf. To cut a long story short, we were let in and found our allotted position, but the refusal of gatekeeper bloke colored the general likeableness of his countrymen all weekend.
The team garage was right at the very end of pit lane and shared with team 78 ATS Peace & Run who were exceptional in the fact that they had endeavored to try and qualify a 675 Triumph Daytona. (Pink with flowers on it in a kind of Oxbow stylee). There were three male riders and the rest of the team were girls, pink overalls ‘n all. They hadn’t qualified and had dropped the bike also. We meeted and greeted joked and joshed, spirits were high.
Guy had dropped the no.1 Alf’s bike in practice however and it was being restored back to fitness when we arrived Friday afternoon.
The riders were not happy with the handling of the bike however and this may have been a result of set up problems. Now I won’t go into detail, but the bike was shod with xxxx Dunlops and equipped with some gorgeous Ohlin’s Superbike forks. The problem was that there were three riders with contrasting styles and a huge amount of settings. Finding a happy medium for Guy (a proper ‘biker’ in my opinion) who was is used to the bike moving around under him on proper roads and circuit specialists like Adam and Craig who were used to razor refined missiles was not going to be an easy task. In some respects a setting had to be found and any flaws had to be rode around. It was after all an endurance race.
The dictionary definition of endurance is ‘the ability or strength to continue or last, esp. despite fatigue, stress, or other adverse conditions; stamina’ and was true to the mark in these events.
Steve Plater who was riding for the incredibly quick Superbike spec Kawasaki France Fuchs no 11 machine kindly offered help with front end settings, air gaps, rebound and compression etc (though I’m sure he didn’t have to and wasn’t supposed to).
He didn’t know me from Adam but when I approached him in pit lane walkabout thrusting a t-shirt at him to sign with a request that he asked the French riders and Hawk Kawasaki rider Scott Smart both in the Kawasaki France team to sign it, he was pleasant, all smiles and genuinely warm.
I’m not sure if it was a recognizable accent in a sea of Babel but when I went back to the Garage he grinned apologized that he had one more to get from Moreira and asked me to come back. We missed each other after that like ships in the night as he was either asleep or on circuit, but I’m sure if I manage to track him down he will send it on he seemed like that type of guy.
I also introduced myself to Scott Smart professing to know his father and holding back any embarrassing memories I harbored from meeting the thirteen year old Scott trussed in a hideous headlock of dental braces working at Paul’s Kawasaki franchise then in Paddock Wood Kent. ‘Hello mate how you doing’ he said casually. This is the man who gave Hawk their memorable BSB win on the C1 based ZX-10. I was chucking beer cans at the telly that day whooping, and here he was friendly as you like.
Unfortunately for Scott despite being second fastest in practice (his words not mine) he was pushed out of the weekend ride by the French rider who has more experience than him. Howze the guy supposed to get experience if they don’t let him ride? (Give Alf’s a ring for the Bol D’Or in September Scott he might let you out for a spin.).
I digress, there’s just so much to say and too little space.
A man with a bib upset the applecart somewhat announcing at 7pm that Alf had to move garages. Check the pix out again, it’s not just a toolbox and some tyres, it’s a 7.5 ton crammed panel truck’s worth.
Naturally disbelief and initial reluctance met the officials demands in should we say the most strident of terms, but the ultimatum was move or be disqualified. One more pin in the voodoo dummy of French officialdom that weekend.
It turned out that according to FIM regulations, any team contracted for the complete series was entitled to a garage to themselves if one was available. The pink trumpet hippie collective hadn’t qualified so voila we thought we had a garage to ourselves. We had not however contracted for the whole series (and were English) so we had to move. In hindsight fair play really but when you have to pack up and move, without being able to remove the timing box on pit wall at 8pm and then continue building the bike for the next morning does not engender a feeling of deep joy.
At 11.30pm with the bike pretty much in one piece Alf noticed in the wan light of the garage a reflection on the gold nitriding of the Ohlin’s fork leg. Further investigation revealed a slight nick from Guy’s off which had torn the seal and was leaking. You guessed it, it had to be replaced. Ok not a hard job, but another one to add to the growing scenario of aggravation. If we had an off in the race and a fork leg was damaged that was it ‘dommage‘! Race over.
Ohlins guru Zweitze Rooske (best name of the weekend) on site cleaned it up pretty good with some wet and dry type stuff, but it was never going to be 100% again.
The sky was salmon, a lonely contrail split the aerial scene, there was a crescent moon, I feel closed in surrounded by sound. In the distance an engine explodes and a muffled tumult followed its demise.
I crawled into the mighty camper at 1am having scribbled my notes and drunk a few beers. I vowed not to spend the next 24 hours cooped up in the Perspex prison that is the timing box, baking hot. (Ideal conditions for tomatoes), perched on pit wall. Ears assaulted every 1 min 45 seconds by the aforementioned tortured motors screaming their heads off in defiance and agony as the pilotes screwed the last ounce of power out of them down the long start finish straight.
The whirr banging had started from the canvas citadels grouped around the circuit Organs of discord. As the Gauls challenged the Franks and the Hun joined in with Tommy no doubt pitching into the Blitzkrieg of disharmony.
I remember previous years, the half lit Hieronymus Bosch world, of valve destroying oil burning noise. It won’t stop until Sunday morning at the earliest. Some people were not going to make it home on the mounts that bought them there. Put to the sword of rev limiter and kill switch madness.
A festival, a mechanical entropy of noxious carcinogenic vapor fried brain cells and inebriated stupidite The audience creating their own entertainment and for most the only entertainment, whilst preparation for the main event was relegated until tomorrow and other than the start relegated to almost behind the scenes, secondary to the massive partying taking place on the perimeter of this event.
Truly you top fuellers and party people you have to go once in your life. Ask an old git who has been in the past. They’ll tell you. They will look sidelong onto the middle distance of the sky and murmur ‘yes I remember Le Mans…… ‘Make sure you listen it’s almost certainly all true no matter how extreme it may sound.
Race day dawned. For pity sake give me some heavy narcs I’m morphing into a serious insomniac and my head hurts from the residual memories of yesterday’s hangover.
The engine was fired up and kitty litter from the previous days off spat out the twin Akrapovic trumpets, red hot they burnt the hand of Tom Burns son of the legendary Steve missing from the team personnel this year due to migration to Aussie.
Morning practice was over almost before it had started. The stunt show roared their way to ovation after ovation, the crowds were revved up. Time to climb into the Perspex prison, hot as a greenhouse. Guy had a piss against pit wall moments before the blart of the klaxon for the two warm up and sighting laps. 3pm clicked into place and we were off. ‘All aboard the crazy train’ (if you will allow me to quote Ozzy Ozbourne), only 24 hours to go.
Guy started from the rear of the grid way down the pecking order and so the great game began.
There wasn’t long to wait the 666 Diablo machine run by ‘Too Tall Tel’ Terry Rymer (a previous winner and champion) hit a Suzuki up the arse and limped back in badly damaged. We were already running 27th overall.
The first session for Guy Martin wound it’s course and we counted him in at 9 minutes to 4pm on the pit box inboard. 32 laps in.
The works Beemer baritoned its way past like a WW11 bomber (shakedown for WSB I hear you say). The Ducati 1098 similarly bassed its way through, the only discernible differences from the high pitched high revving fours screeching past.
Adam was out next and as he wailed past pit lane exit there was a definite weave to #59.The 666 Diablo machine was back out again.
Adam pitted 5 laps early seriously concerned about the handling. We dropped from 21st to 46th as the hoops were changed and the bike checked over.
Craig was next but pitted at 5.40 with a seriously overheating bike. Thirty eight minutes later with a new radiator installed and Tango sporting a scalded hand we were back out. The radiator had holed and when replaced it was discovered the ignition power fuse had also burnt out, meaning more delays while this problem was sought and rectified. We rejoined 3rd from last and twenty odd laps down. It was a long race ahead but our chances of a top ten finish were surely dashed.
The riders circulated and the race stayed mostly out of trouble, at 7.00pm the Diablo machine appears to be down again but rejoins the race.
The Alf’s riders were still struggling with the way the bike was behaving. It appeared to weave at the end of the start finish straight as the bikes ran wide for the first turn, it could have been many things, but there weren’t many other bikes displaying the same symptoms. The Bristling Beemer bassed and bombed around this section very robustly in its open class.
The guys kept circulating through evening and into the night, despite their best attempts we were still lying close to the foot of the leader board because of the unexpected expense of the previous radiator change.
Alf asked Dunlop to check out the front tyre of the bike. They did so and revealed a faulty carcass on the first front tyre and subsequently apparently the second.
Naturally this discovery helped explain some of the stability problems but the bike was set up as a best setting suitable to all the riders so to some extent the suspension set up had been aggravated by this now revealed tyre problem
Midnight. Round and round and round they rip through the air, lights blazing as they ravenously tear up the next sector. Luckily for me still in the timing box approximately 9 hours in I had an electronic display hooked up with the official timing available via the garage. This is much easier on the eyes as you don’t have to physically look out for them as in previous years. Just watch as the sectors countdown and record the lap time. And set the board for their next circulation.
1.20am We were still circulating and fighting hard to make up for the afternoons enforced stop, but it was going to take hours and we would have to rely on other teams ahead of us having problems.
Up front it was a tight pack of leading Suzuki’s with the GMT Yamaha with Gimbert and Checa on board. The Fuchs France Kawasaki featuring British interests Steve Plater were also battling hard to remain running with the pack
The Beemer drones down to pit lane exit and the rider nearly took out a line of perimeter cones as he sought the right switch to disengage the rev limiter to prevent pit lane speeding
Can we still assure ourselves of a top 12 or better finish we all knew the team were capable of?
The Ducati blasts past My bet that it wouldn’t go half distance was looking decidedly shakey, we have made up only two places.
The MV Augusta of team 31 swept past in 21st place behind the Beemer in 20th position.
Round and round and round, too noisy to hear the circus in full swing no doubt out there on the perimeter, ‘Out there there are no stars‘. As fire and smoke and lights and glare and glazed eyes act out their own dramas.
Thirteen hours to go. Could do with a beer! No, two in fact, and then some kip and a bit of a rest from the constant noise and activity before I have to face it all again, hopefully more refreshed.
A smoky firework of a bike fizzes past, serious smoke and big trouble very soon for his team to fix. From what I can gather in between hasty glances at the big screen at the end of pit lane (before the broadcast stopped late in the night) The GMT94 Team Yamaha R1 was heading the pack with the constant threat of the Sert Suzuki’s and The Fuchs France Kawasaki. All Superbike specification. Premier class. The smoker has returned, no.8 by the looks of it the very popular Team Bolliger on the Kawasaki
The team that had taken over our garage earlier comes in and gets pushed in the garage, the bike has taken a beating all over and activity starts as all the dead bits are stripped away and then the basics of the bike investigated. They wheeled their spare bike in and appeared to be contemplating quite how they were gonna patch the bike up safely, within the rules and get the riders back out.
It soon became apparent that it was game over for them.
I think it was about 3.15am when I climbed out of the pit box. To be fair I had snatched brief intervals here and there to get tea and victuals and John ‘more than two cylinders is just plain greedy’ Brookes who snapped all the pix of the weekend in a most excellent fashion deputized kindly, along with Frosty who also helped out a lot, ensuring that there were two of us in the box for at least part of the time.
I left my armband in the garage and shuffled off to the haven not far from the madding crowd, the Mighty Talbot Excalibur. (Now firmly ensconced after the previous day’s mild fracas) in it’s reserved slot. Away from the garages and next to the mobile kitchen.
An absolute must, The Kitchen, at an event like this. Mike the cook supported a team of twenty over the weekend at all hours and had already done so most of the previous weeks practice and set up period, with the first wave of the team setting out their stall.
I sat on the steps of the camper van and drunk two stubbies, smoked a roll up and just listened. before turning in.
I set my alarm for 5.30am which would allow me at least half hour wake up period before heading back into the dawn.
Mr. Burn (damn fine engineer bloke) woke me up when he entered the van at about 4.30 to say that Alf had had to make the decision to retire after the second radiator had also been holed. Not only did this take a long time to fix. There wasn’t a spare, it was the one leaking, allowing the bike to overheat.
I greeted this news barely awake but it confirmed my earlier thoughts. The sum of the weekend’s troubles had reached critical point. The first DNF that The Sussex based team had encountered at Le Mans in four years of racing in this prestigious event.
Logically the law of averages has to kick in at some point. The more you do the more likely you are to fail at some point. It’s a grueling race and the team had worked hard at their game, but disappointment was hard to put to one side.
The team had completed 376 laps in 12 hours and 52 minutes
Alf the Team owner said he was feeling positive despite the enforced end to this year’s campaign. He has some plans up his sleeve I’m sure of it.
That new morning and throughout the day the equipment was stowed and crammed in various support vehicles, the race continued unabated, but the field of runners had taken a beating with teams dropping out through the nigh until the end of the race. The 30th edition of this race was over, the noise stopped and the dust settled. Only half the field had finished with Sert Suzuki taking the honours first and second 818 laps in 24 hours. Kawasaki France third. Phase one previous champions featuring Glen Richards and Warwick Nowland also managed a difficult finish battling to 9th overall. I hope the Beemer finished, the marque hadn’t participated in an endurance race for fifty years. Variety is the spice of life and it makes a change to see a non Japanese bike competing.
Finally we were off to the hotel for food and sleep.
I lay awake most of that night unable to sleep, my head buzzing with the recent memory and tiredness.
On the ferry when traveling home the next day there was talk of the Bol D’Or in September down at Magny-Cours. Alf didn’t say no.
Apparently all three of the riders were better for the experience they had gained, Guy may have offered to come down with the team again, Alf had telemetry planned, more dyno time, separate workshop facilities devoted purely to the raucous ZX-10R and a shakedown test in mind at a UK endurance round.
Endurance racing is big in France and a lot of Brits go, but for those of you that it has passed by. Check out the web links at the end of this piece. You owe it to yourself to go to Le Mans one year, in my opinion it ranks with other musts for those of you who like a proper ride out and knees up. Like the IOM not far away, 100th year celebrations and all that.
I’m going to sleep now!
Doby Trutcenden 2.5.07
The Team
http://www.alfsmotorcycles.co.uk/
Support
http://www.ukbike.com/
Pictures of the event courtesy of John Brookes.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/yeahmeagain/collections/
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