Backstory:
Once upon a time I was working at my first shop. Owner had an H2R. Yes, it was THAT long ago that the H2R was nearly current.
One day, I was actually allowed to ride it. I was doing so well, too. Bumped easily enough, nice easy warm up, just the right amount of slip to not stall on the way out the driveway. Burbled along to the freeway, and got up to a decent but respectful speed. No sense drawing attention. NOTHING legal about this, officer. Plates? Well, they are from the Kawasaki shop, and the ARE dealer plates. Doesn't that sort of make the whole operation legit?
A conversation I did not intend to have. On the boss's race bike.
Made it up to the interchange, intent on getting the hell back to the shop in one piece. Rolled on the throttle, just a wee bit. Wonderful ,fabulous music from the pipes now, just a little more here, leaning, leaning. Thinking about old race tyres. When all hell broke loose. And when I say broke loose, I mean everything, all at once. Suddenly a LOT more power, suddenly leaning over the tank trying to steer, suddenly steering with the throttle, trying to hold the front somewhere close to the road. I couldn't decide. Should I be terrified of the thing just slipping out from under me, since we were sliding pretty good already? Or should I be more terrified of the thing suddenly hooking up when the front touches down, pitching me into the iceplant directly?
Visions of Yvon DuHamel, maybe the best rider in the world, pitching HIS H2R off the race course half the time. He wins or he crashes, hard, most weeks. So...if I am stoopid enough to be on this bike, how do I survive? What is the secret recipe?? Ohhhh...terrible, stoopid me.
I settled for a pinch more throttle, still more weight over the front tire, just a touch of rear brake, and a dash of additional counter steering. Mercifully, the H2R was magic. Miraculously, the front touched down and held. Smooth and straight. Ludicrous to be hacking my way around the overpass this way. I. Am. Not. This. Good. But the H2R was so perfect. Way over any legal speed limit, afraid to back off and induce the famous speed wobble. I made it around the cars in front of me, still at full gas, shifting, barely clearing at least one mirror, to the first exit. The smell of Castrol, race rubber, and brakes overtook me as I waited for the light to change. Feeling awfully conspicuous, hoping the Kawasaki would stay running long enough for me to escape.
Somehow, no red lights and sirens. No crash. No phone call to the shop. I have no recollection of the ride back. Just the best two or three minutes ever.
If that hybrid bike were here in the states, I would own it today. Cash. Again, thank you for making that at least terribly impractical, maybe impossible.
saxman
