I’ve not been posting as much about my new Yamaha as I did the Dragon. Sure, she’s not so new anymore, what with 2,000 miles on her and looking like she’s just been through the Dakar, but I do believe an update is in order.
The Revs
The amount of pull she has between 8,000 and 12,000 rpm is just freaky. I feel like a little kid on one of those crazy rides at the fair. Holding on for dear life, laughing like a lunatic, but foaming at the mouth a bit too, wanting desperately to get off. What – it’s gonna spin around again? And upside down this time? No, no, no, it’s too much to take. At that point you’re just holding on waiting for this carnival ride from Hell to be over, but of course once it’s done you just jump off and run to the back of the line so you can do it all again.
That’s what it’s like playing in the power band. It’s just insane.
I’ve driven fast bikes before. The ZRX11 had some good pull. The Dragon was dangerously quick. But this little FZ1 is just sick. The thing about that kind of acceleration is that you get a taste for it, and soon this stupid little voice in your head starts thinking about more. I have a feeling I’ll be making a few tweaks here and there over the coming year.
But this Yamaha, she ain’t pretty. The GTR14 took my breath away every time I looked at her. My Yamaha has more of a work-horse look about her, especially with all the salt and road filth from winter driving. I’ve always liked that dirty look, always had bikes like that, but I do miss the Dragon. (It’s not that I miss driving her, not really – I just miss having her).
It’s difficult to give a proper break-in report with all the crap on the roads. It’s winter, and though I enjoy my daily commute though the varied local terrain, I’ve not yet been able to throw this bike around properly. I got her just as winter started, and here we are (maybe) just approaching spring. That’s three months of shite roads. Three months of owning a (possibly) excellent bike, without yet really knowing.
The roads
The roads, they’re slick. All winter long they’re slick. It’s like a lottery. This is my third winter in Scotland and I still can’t tell from a glance what kind of traction I’m going to get. Sure, I can see that the grip is going to be poor, but how poor? Corner number one was a gripper; corner number two is a slipper. The paranoia grows, but somehow, so does the confidence.
The roads here are slippery all the time, even if it hasn’t rained in days. Part of it is the salt they put down in a cold spell; part of it is just the general shittiness of Scottish winters. The road surfaces are a winter-long gloop of retained moisture, absorbed gas fumes, salt, sand, and various other road-snot.
I could write all day about the various surface conditions you find around here. They change every day, every moment. In the winter I actually enjoy the rain — that hard, heavy rain that comes down all day. All the crud and slime gets washed away. Now it’s just clean, wet pavement. Bring it on.
But mostly it’s a freezing fog followed by a miserable drizzle. The pavement loves this combination – it gleefully soaks up all that oil and gassy exhaust, every day giving the finger to us two-wheeled die-hards.
I have different moods when I’m riding in these conditions. Sometimes my every nerve ending gets involved with finding the perfect way through: hips off the side, head and shoulders into the line, arms relaxed, my soul on the high-side peg. But then there’s a straight bit in front of me, clear of traffic, and I forgo the finesse and twist that throttle until it feels like I’m entering some other dimension. Hoo boy. Gotta be careful. There’s a whole boatload of hurt in that power band, but like my one-year old son asserting his will, I just can’t stay away from it.
I have a feeling that this little bike I have here is going to be a right blast once me and the road surface are seeing eye to eye. This is a good winter bike, but it’ll be some weeks before I can say whether it’s the bike for me.
The Schizophrenia
It’s getting schizophrenic: danger and boredom come together to form an adrenalin-fuelled ennui. I talk to myself about it on the way to work. I dream about it. I’ve had enough. I’m ready now for the long long days, the dry B roads, the confidence to take my best line through a hard corner without this constant obsession with wiping out. I want myself to scare myself rather the slip doing it for me. We’re almost there, oh I hope we’re almost there.
Take heed you young whippersnappers, and take care. Keep it slow and easy for just a little while longer. We’re almost there.
This Train is for Gourock 