There's been a delay in my rants for a while but that's simply the outcome of my life engulfing me. Sometimes, it just takes over and I tend to ride through it, hands clenched firmly on the shakey bars. But now, a few miles stolen in the night on my AJS, I'm back to normalcy.
I've been wondering, so how fucking good are these superbikes that everybody seems to be drooling over. Yeah, they go like the blazes and stop before you even thought of slowing down. They handle like an extension of your body and their lines, at least some of them, can get my blood flowing well down south.
But how happy is a 150-plus bhp machine that is being subjected to a cruel lifetime of urban city commuting - a dark place where top speeds can achieve a blistering 50 kph and in all probability, leaving the top three cogs in the gearbox spanking new due to disuse - be and I shudder to think of the thrill that is to be had while crawling around with 200-odd kg between your legs.
In my humble opinion, I'd rather ride a slow bike fast than a fast bike slow. Doing a tonne on a B31 gets my jollies much more than doing the same pace on a motorcycle powered by a nuclear reactor. And my fascination for cleaning up the mess that ensues - oil grime and tightening the odd fastener - just makes the whole deal a lot more intimate.
Funny because it appears that people like me do not constitute the majority of the avid motorcycling fraternity, but that doesn't count for squat, right?