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.
Wednesday 28 November 2007
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 !!!!
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