Just rode an R1! (Long and rambling...)
Discussion
Mate of mine bought an R1 to replace his 995/959/955 - some Triumph thing anyway.
Unfortunately he had no insurance so asked if I'd ride it back from the seller's on my 3rd party
- brave man!
So it was about 4 degrees and raining. The bike ('05 plate with carbon-fibre frame protection, CRG(?) levers, digital gear indicator, Yoshimura pipes, blah blah) was warmed-up, which is more than could be said for me. I'd been down to the Regatta stall on the market only an hour before and was wearing my new thermal long-johns, but my knee and hip joints were already screaming at the prospect of assuming a position that even me Julie only encounters me in on warm evenings after a good menthol rubdown and several shots of rum.
I swung a leg over and promptly got cramp in my hip trying to get a foot on the peg. I could get both feet flat, something I can't do on the Cruise Missile. The bike felt like a 125 after the supertanker that is the ST1300. I clicked into gear and fed in the clutch. My mate stayed behind to hand over the readies, fill in the paperwork. I plotted a short route back to his place; I wanted this trip over and done with.
Out of the estate and it was woom-wooom-woooom up to 6th, oh crap I'm doing 45 in a 30, best roll off. First roundabout and now I have to find the indicators. A light touch and the flashers are on, down a bunch of gears and wobble into the roundabout on the verge of stalling. Dammit this thing isn't the ST, what torque? Take the exit and give it a bit more. Six grand through to about 4th, that's better... and now there's a red light. Oh FFS: down the box and straight into neutral, that's a surprise. I'd pulled up at the head of the queue and there was a bus filtering onto the junction. Lights go amber, the Yoshis thunder and luckily Mr. Busman thinks better of pulling out in front of me as the front goes light when I drop the clutch a bit sharpish.
Pass a few cars, teeter across another wet roundabout and now there's half a mile to a T-junction with only one 4x4 to beat. Easy peasy, back on the lovely brakes and now we turn left.
Er no we don't: that's the short way. I might actually get to enjoy this, so let's turn right and go the long way
I'm well-forward and the weight's on my wrists. Nowhere to overtake, 50 limit, cold wind down my neck and restricted visibility from having my head tilted so far back (remember, I'm old and ride the Battlestar Galactica), slightest drop of an eyelid and the bike is turning. It's like riding a racing pushbike.
Into the quaint town of Yarm and the traffic is queuing for three-quarters of a mile looking for parking spaces. I trickle past the lot, watching for snap-parkers or inattentive wanderers, but luckily encounter neither. Yarm High Street reverbs to the Yoshis, blips of the throttle telling that I mean business, even though I don't. I'm a big softie really. The same could be said of the R1's seat: unbelievably comfy for what it is.
Out of Yarm now, schoolboy's faces glued to car windows: 'Look dad, look!'
Grown men nudge their women in the family hack: 'Look our lass, that's what I'm getting next!'. You can tell from her face it'll be a new kitchen, a holiday at Sandals and his face in her minge every night for a year before he'll even get to look at pictures of an R1. Today, just for ten minutes, in the cold and drizzle, I am the focus of every Teesside bloke's envy.
The back lane to Elton is a local testing ground. That's why it now has a farcical limit and more chevrons than the Royal Marines' Sergeants' Mess. But no cameras. I see the wrong side of a very naughty speed, and we haven't even got out of third. The R1 feels more securely planted than the ST13, at higher speeds and steeper angles, and once the wind takes the weight off my wrists it doesn't twitch as much from spurious rider inputs (gout, shivering, arthritis, that kind of thing).
I get a bit more adventurous on the next two roundabouts but still can't get a smooth turn-in or a decent line: I'm a puff in the wet and that's all there is to it. A scooter undercuts me, dragging a Nike'd foot in that wankerish fashion they have. I'm tempted to give him the finger as I blast bast on the back wheel, blow him away with the fat breath of the twin under-seat pipes, but he heads off into town for some drugs and I take a different, more exciting road. Besides, I only ever wheelie bikes by accident. Big Iain would kill me if I dumped it.
A Merc SLK is in front now; I can see him watching me in his mirror. He chances his arm on a bend and overtakes, I don't rise to it. Half a mile on and a queue is forming for the next junction: SLK-boy tries another overtake but has to pull back in due to oncoming. I trickle past him and the rest, shaking my head pointedly. It's not a day (or the road) for heroics.
Through the estate and back to my mate's but there's no sign of him so I go around the estate again. I stop to allow grandad to back his car out but stall the bike once he's gone. What a tw@t.
Another lap of the estate and now I take a different exit and head out to Darlington. There's still too much traffic but I get past a few and take the opportunit on a downhill straight to take both hands off: the bike stays in a straight line althouh it's very nervous. There's a steering damper but the bike is so sensitive I can steer it just by sticking my elbows out. On the ST I could sit back, take my gloves off and have a wank and it'd still be stable. But then I have to start braking one county early on that, where the R1 stops if you simply think about it. If Robocop ever becomes reality, wrap my fleshy bits round one of these.
Eventually I give up in disgust: the world is not about to phuck off and let me find the space to enjoy myself, the rain's not going to stop, the A66 is not going to turn into Cadwell. And Iain wants his new toy. I head for his place, and try to think up something classy to say. It ends up as the lame 'It's very nice mate'. I guess I'm... jealous?
Earlier on I was making jokes about sitting on a razor blade. Well it is a blade, in the sense that the whole bike is a surgical instrument. I've never been a fan of sports bikes, but this isn't painted to look like a kids' toy or a fag packet. There's nothing there you don't need (not even a switch to turn the lights off - they come on when you start the engine). The paint is classy, understated: it's even partly matt. It's the lines that do the talking.
Even from my short ride and limited skills I can tell that when there's a particular job to be done, this is the tool for it. I don't know that I'd want to cross Europe on one, for that the ST would seem to be a much nicer prospect; but come the summer, when we're dissecting the Lake District en route to a particular pub and campsite, I know the R1 will have made a keyhole incision, slit out the tumour and sewn-up invisibly while the ST will still be deciding which blunt tenon saw to hack away with. On the other hand I find I'm comparing one of those nasty advertised-in-gungho-magazine push-daggers with a Swiss army knife, and the Leatherman ST is still more my style than the Gillete R1
Unfortunately he had no insurance so asked if I'd ride it back from the seller's on my 3rd party
- brave man! So it was about 4 degrees and raining. The bike ('05 plate with carbon-fibre frame protection, CRG(?) levers, digital gear indicator, Yoshimura pipes, blah blah) was warmed-up, which is more than could be said for me. I'd been down to the Regatta stall on the market only an hour before and was wearing my new thermal long-johns, but my knee and hip joints were already screaming at the prospect of assuming a position that even me Julie only encounters me in on warm evenings after a good menthol rubdown and several shots of rum.
I swung a leg over and promptly got cramp in my hip trying to get a foot on the peg. I could get both feet flat, something I can't do on the Cruise Missile. The bike felt like a 125 after the supertanker that is the ST1300. I clicked into gear and fed in the clutch. My mate stayed behind to hand over the readies, fill in the paperwork. I plotted a short route back to his place; I wanted this trip over and done with.
Out of the estate and it was woom-wooom-woooom up to 6th, oh crap I'm doing 45 in a 30, best roll off. First roundabout and now I have to find the indicators. A light touch and the flashers are on, down a bunch of gears and wobble into the roundabout on the verge of stalling. Dammit this thing isn't the ST, what torque? Take the exit and give it a bit more. Six grand through to about 4th, that's better... and now there's a red light. Oh FFS: down the box and straight into neutral, that's a surprise. I'd pulled up at the head of the queue and there was a bus filtering onto the junction. Lights go amber, the Yoshis thunder and luckily Mr. Busman thinks better of pulling out in front of me as the front goes light when I drop the clutch a bit sharpish.
Pass a few cars, teeter across another wet roundabout and now there's half a mile to a T-junction with only one 4x4 to beat. Easy peasy, back on the lovely brakes and now we turn left.
Er no we don't: that's the short way. I might actually get to enjoy this, so let's turn right and go the long way
I'm well-forward and the weight's on my wrists. Nowhere to overtake, 50 limit, cold wind down my neck and restricted visibility from having my head tilted so far back (remember, I'm old and ride the Battlestar Galactica), slightest drop of an eyelid and the bike is turning. It's like riding a racing pushbike.
Into the quaint town of Yarm and the traffic is queuing for three-quarters of a mile looking for parking spaces. I trickle past the lot, watching for snap-parkers or inattentive wanderers, but luckily encounter neither. Yarm High Street reverbs to the Yoshis, blips of the throttle telling that I mean business, even though I don't. I'm a big softie really. The same could be said of the R1's seat: unbelievably comfy for what it is.
Out of Yarm now, schoolboy's faces glued to car windows: 'Look dad, look!'
Grown men nudge their women in the family hack: 'Look our lass, that's what I'm getting next!'. You can tell from her face it'll be a new kitchen, a holiday at Sandals and his face in her minge every night for a year before he'll even get to look at pictures of an R1. Today, just for ten minutes, in the cold and drizzle, I am the focus of every Teesside bloke's envy.
The back lane to Elton is a local testing ground. That's why it now has a farcical limit and more chevrons than the Royal Marines' Sergeants' Mess. But no cameras. I see the wrong side of a very naughty speed, and we haven't even got out of third. The R1 feels more securely planted than the ST13, at higher speeds and steeper angles, and once the wind takes the weight off my wrists it doesn't twitch as much from spurious rider inputs (gout, shivering, arthritis, that kind of thing).
I get a bit more adventurous on the next two roundabouts but still can't get a smooth turn-in or a decent line: I'm a puff in the wet and that's all there is to it. A scooter undercuts me, dragging a Nike'd foot in that wankerish fashion they have. I'm tempted to give him the finger as I blast bast on the back wheel, blow him away with the fat breath of the twin under-seat pipes, but he heads off into town for some drugs and I take a different, more exciting road. Besides, I only ever wheelie bikes by accident. Big Iain would kill me if I dumped it.
A Merc SLK is in front now; I can see him watching me in his mirror. He chances his arm on a bend and overtakes, I don't rise to it. Half a mile on and a queue is forming for the next junction: SLK-boy tries another overtake but has to pull back in due to oncoming. I trickle past him and the rest, shaking my head pointedly. It's not a day (or the road) for heroics.
Through the estate and back to my mate's but there's no sign of him so I go around the estate again. I stop to allow grandad to back his car out but stall the bike once he's gone. What a tw@t.
Another lap of the estate and now I take a different exit and head out to Darlington. There's still too much traffic but I get past a few and take the opportunit on a downhill straight to take both hands off: the bike stays in a straight line althouh it's very nervous. There's a steering damper but the bike is so sensitive I can steer it just by sticking my elbows out. On the ST I could sit back, take my gloves off and have a wank and it'd still be stable. But then I have to start braking one county early on that, where the R1 stops if you simply think about it. If Robocop ever becomes reality, wrap my fleshy bits round one of these.
Eventually I give up in disgust: the world is not about to phuck off and let me find the space to enjoy myself, the rain's not going to stop, the A66 is not going to turn into Cadwell. And Iain wants his new toy. I head for his place, and try to think up something classy to say. It ends up as the lame 'It's very nice mate'. I guess I'm... jealous?
Earlier on I was making jokes about sitting on a razor blade. Well it is a blade, in the sense that the whole bike is a surgical instrument. I've never been a fan of sports bikes, but this isn't painted to look like a kids' toy or a fag packet. There's nothing there you don't need (not even a switch to turn the lights off - they come on when you start the engine). The paint is classy, understated: it's even partly matt. It's the lines that do the talking.
Even from my short ride and limited skills I can tell that when there's a particular job to be done, this is the tool for it. I don't know that I'd want to cross Europe on one, for that the ST would seem to be a much nicer prospect; but come the summer, when we're dissecting the Lake District en route to a particular pub and campsite, I know the R1 will have made a keyhole incision, slit out the tumour and sewn-up invisibly while the ST will still be deciding which blunt tenon saw to hack away with. On the other hand I find I'm comparing one of those nasty advertised-in-gungho-magazine push-daggers with a Swiss army knife, and the Leatherman ST is still more my style than the Gillete R1
wedg1e said:
Mate of mine bought an R1 to replace his 995/959/955 - some Triumph thing anyway.
Unfortunately he had no insurance so asked if I'd ride it back from the seller's on my 3rd party - brave man!
So it was about 4 degrees and raining. The bike ('05 plate with carbon-fibre frame protection, CRG(?) levers, digital gear indicator, Yoshimura pipes, blah blah) was warmed-up, which is more than could be said for me. I'd been down to the Regatta stall on the market only an hour before and was wearing my new thermal long-johns, but my knee and hip joints were already screaming at the prospect of assuming a position that even me Julie only encounters me in on warm evenings after a good menthol rubdown and several shots of rum.
I swung a leg over and promptly got cramp in my hip trying to get a foot on the peg. I could get both feet flat, something I can't do on the Cruise Missile. The bike felt like a 125 after the supertanker that is the ST1300. I clicked into gear and fed in the clutch. My mate stayed behind to hand over the readies, fill in the paperwork. I plotted a short route back to his place; I wanted this trip over and done with.
Out of the estate and it was woom-wooom-woooom up to 6th, oh crap I'm doing 45 in a 30, best roll off. First roundabout and now I have to find the indicators. A light touch and the flashers are on, down a bunch of gears and wobble into the roundabout on the verge of stalling. Dammit this thing isn't the ST, what torque? Take the exit and give it a bit more. Six grand through to about 4th, that's better... and now there's a red light. Oh FFS: down the box and straight into neutral, that's a surprise. I'd pulled up at the head of the queue and there was a bus filtering onto the junction. Lights go amber, the Yoshis thunder and luckily Mr. Busman thinks better of pulling out in front of me as the front goes light when I drop the clutch a bit sharpish.
Pass a few cars, teeter across another wet roundabout and now there's half a mile to a T-junction with only one 4x4 to beat. Easy peasy, back on the lovely brakes and now we turn left.
Er no we don't: that's the short way. I might actually get to enjoy this, so let's turn right and go the long way
I'm well-forward and the weight's on my wrists. Nowhere to overtake, 50 limit, cold wind down my neck and restricted visibility from having my head tilted so far back (remember, I'm old and ride the Battlestar Galactica), slightest drop of an eyelid and the bike is turning. It's like riding a racing pushbike.
Into the quaint town of Yarm and the traffic is queuing for three-quarters of a mile looking for parking spaces. I trickle past the lot, watching for snap-parkers or inattentive wanderers, but luckily encounter neither. Yarm High Street reverbs to the Yoshis, blips of the throttle telling that I mean business, even though I don't. I'm a big softie really. The same could be said of the R1's seat: unbelievably comfy for what it is.
Out of Yarm now, schoolboy's faces glued to car windows: 'Look dad, look!'
Grown men nudge their women in the family hack: 'Look our lass, that's what I'm getting next!'. You can tell from her face it'll be a new kitchen, a holiday at Sandals and his face in her minge every night for a year before he'll even get to look at pictures of an R1. Today, just for ten minutes, in the cold and drizzle, I am the focus of every Teesside bloke's envy.
The back lane to Elton is a local testing ground. That's why it now has a farcical limit and more chevrons than the Royal Marines' Sergeants' Mess. But no cameras. I see the wrong side of a very naughty speed, and we haven't even got out of third. The R1 feels more securely planted than the ST13, at higher speeds and steeper angles, and once the wind takes the weight off my wrists it doesn't twitch as much from spurious rider inputs (gout, shivering, arthritis, that kind of thing).
I get a bit more adventurous on the next two roundabouts but still can't get a smooth turn-in or a decent line: I'm a puff in the wet and that's all there is to it. A scooter undercuts me, dragging a Nike'd foot in that wankerish fashion they have. I'm tempted to give him the finger as I blast bast on the back wheel, blow him away with the fat breath of the twin under-seat pipes, but he heads off into town for some drugs and I take a different, more exciting road. Besides, I only ever wheelie bikes by accident. Big Iain would kill me if I dumped it.
A Merc SLK is in front now; I can see him watching me in his mirror. He chances his arm on a bend and overtakes, I don't rise to it. Half a mile on and a queue is forming for the next junction: SLK-boy tries another overtake but has to pull back in due to oncoming. I trickle past him and the rest, shaking my head pointedly. It's not a day (or the road) for heroics.
Through the estate and back to my mate's but there's no sign of him so I go around the estate again. I stop to allow grandad to back his car out but stall the bike once he's gone. What a tw@t.
Another lap of the estate and now I take a different exit and head out to Darlington. There's still too much traffic but I get past a few and take the opportunit on a downhill straight to take both hands off: the bike stays in a straight line althouh it's very nervous. There's a steering damper but the bike is so sensitive I can steer it just by sticking my elbows out. On the ST I could sit back, take my gloves off and have a wank and it'd still be stable. But then I have to start braking one county early on that, where the R1 stops if you simply think about it. If Robocop ever becomes reality, wrap my fleshy bits round one of these.
Eventually I give up in disgust: the world is not about to phuck off and let me find the space to enjoy myself, the rain's not going to stop, the A66 is not going to turn into Cadwell. And Iain wants his new toy. I head for his place, and try to think up something classy to say. It ends up as the lame 'It's very nice mate'. I guess I'm... jealous?
Earlier on I was making jokes about sitting on a razor blade. Well it is a blade, in the sense that the whole bike is a surgical instrument. I've never been a fan of sports bikes, but this isn't painted to look like a kids' toy or a fag packet. There's nothing there you don't need (not even a switch to turn the lights off - they come on when you start the engine). The paint is classy, understated: it's even partly matt. It's the lines that do the talking.
Even from my short ride and limited skills I can tell that when there's a particular job to be done, this is the tool for it. I don't know that I'd want to cross Europe on one, for that the ST would seem to be a much nicer prospect; but come the summer, when we're dissecting the Lake District en route to a particular pub and campsite, I know the R1 will have made a keyhole incision, slit out the tumour and sewn-up invisibly while the ST will still be deciding which blunt tenon saw to hack away with. On the other hand I find I'm comparing one of those nasty advertised-in-gungho-magazine push-daggers with a Swiss army knife, and the Leatherman ST is still more my style than the Gillete R1
Unfortunately he had no insurance so asked if I'd ride it back from the seller's on my 3rd party
- brave man! So it was about 4 degrees and raining. The bike ('05 plate with carbon-fibre frame protection, CRG(?) levers, digital gear indicator, Yoshimura pipes, blah blah) was warmed-up, which is more than could be said for me. I'd been down to the Regatta stall on the market only an hour before and was wearing my new thermal long-johns, but my knee and hip joints were already screaming at the prospect of assuming a position that even me Julie only encounters me in on warm evenings after a good menthol rubdown and several shots of rum.
I swung a leg over and promptly got cramp in my hip trying to get a foot on the peg. I could get both feet flat, something I can't do on the Cruise Missile. The bike felt like a 125 after the supertanker that is the ST1300. I clicked into gear and fed in the clutch. My mate stayed behind to hand over the readies, fill in the paperwork. I plotted a short route back to his place; I wanted this trip over and done with.
Out of the estate and it was woom-wooom-woooom up to 6th, oh crap I'm doing 45 in a 30, best roll off. First roundabout and now I have to find the indicators. A light touch and the flashers are on, down a bunch of gears and wobble into the roundabout on the verge of stalling. Dammit this thing isn't the ST, what torque? Take the exit and give it a bit more. Six grand through to about 4th, that's better... and now there's a red light. Oh FFS: down the box and straight into neutral, that's a surprise. I'd pulled up at the head of the queue and there was a bus filtering onto the junction. Lights go amber, the Yoshis thunder and luckily Mr. Busman thinks better of pulling out in front of me as the front goes light when I drop the clutch a bit sharpish.
Pass a few cars, teeter across another wet roundabout and now there's half a mile to a T-junction with only one 4x4 to beat. Easy peasy, back on the lovely brakes and now we turn left.
Er no we don't: that's the short way. I might actually get to enjoy this, so let's turn right and go the long way
I'm well-forward and the weight's on my wrists. Nowhere to overtake, 50 limit, cold wind down my neck and restricted visibility from having my head tilted so far back (remember, I'm old and ride the Battlestar Galactica), slightest drop of an eyelid and the bike is turning. It's like riding a racing pushbike.
Into the quaint town of Yarm and the traffic is queuing for three-quarters of a mile looking for parking spaces. I trickle past the lot, watching for snap-parkers or inattentive wanderers, but luckily encounter neither. Yarm High Street reverbs to the Yoshis, blips of the throttle telling that I mean business, even though I don't. I'm a big softie really. The same could be said of the R1's seat: unbelievably comfy for what it is.
Out of Yarm now, schoolboy's faces glued to car windows: 'Look dad, look!'
Grown men nudge their women in the family hack: 'Look our lass, that's what I'm getting next!'. You can tell from her face it'll be a new kitchen, a holiday at Sandals and his face in her minge every night for a year before he'll even get to look at pictures of an R1. Today, just for ten minutes, in the cold and drizzle, I am the focus of every Teesside bloke's envy.
The back lane to Elton is a local testing ground. That's why it now has a farcical limit and more chevrons than the Royal Marines' Sergeants' Mess. But no cameras. I see the wrong side of a very naughty speed, and we haven't even got out of third. The R1 feels more securely planted than the ST13, at higher speeds and steeper angles, and once the wind takes the weight off my wrists it doesn't twitch as much from spurious rider inputs (gout, shivering, arthritis, that kind of thing).
I get a bit more adventurous on the next two roundabouts but still can't get a smooth turn-in or a decent line: I'm a puff in the wet and that's all there is to it. A scooter undercuts me, dragging a Nike'd foot in that wankerish fashion they have. I'm tempted to give him the finger as I blast bast on the back wheel, blow him away with the fat breath of the twin under-seat pipes, but he heads off into town for some drugs and I take a different, more exciting road. Besides, I only ever wheelie bikes by accident. Big Iain would kill me if I dumped it.
A Merc SLK is in front now; I can see him watching me in his mirror. He chances his arm on a bend and overtakes, I don't rise to it. Half a mile on and a queue is forming for the next junction: SLK-boy tries another overtake but has to pull back in due to oncoming. I trickle past him and the rest, shaking my head pointedly. It's not a day (or the road) for heroics.
Through the estate and back to my mate's but there's no sign of him so I go around the estate again. I stop to allow grandad to back his car out but stall the bike once he's gone. What a tw@t.
Another lap of the estate and now I take a different exit and head out to Darlington. There's still too much traffic but I get past a few and take the opportunit on a downhill straight to take both hands off: the bike stays in a straight line althouh it's very nervous. There's a steering damper but the bike is so sensitive I can steer it just by sticking my elbows out. On the ST I could sit back, take my gloves off and have a wank and it'd still be stable. But then I have to start braking one county early on that, where the R1 stops if you simply think about it. If Robocop ever becomes reality, wrap my fleshy bits round one of these.
Eventually I give up in disgust: the world is not about to phuck off and let me find the space to enjoy myself, the rain's not going to stop, the A66 is not going to turn into Cadwell. And Iain wants his new toy. I head for his place, and try to think up something classy to say. It ends up as the lame 'It's very nice mate'. I guess I'm... jealous?
Earlier on I was making jokes about sitting on a razor blade. Well it is a blade, in the sense that the whole bike is a surgical instrument. I've never been a fan of sports bikes, but this isn't painted to look like a kids' toy or a fag packet. There's nothing there you don't need (not even a switch to turn the lights off - they come on when you start the engine). The paint is classy, understated: it's even partly matt. It's the lines that do the talking.
Even from my short ride and limited skills I can tell that when there's a particular job to be done, this is the tool for it. I don't know that I'd want to cross Europe on one, for that the ST would seem to be a much nicer prospect; but come the summer, when we're dissecting the Lake District en route to a particular pub and campsite, I know the R1 will have made a keyhole incision, slit out the tumour and sewn-up invisibly while the ST will still be deciding which blunt tenon saw to hack away with. On the other hand I find I'm comparing one of those nasty advertised-in-gungho-magazine push-daggers with a Swiss army knife, and the Leatherman ST is still more my style than the Gillete R1
I like mine too.
Rawwr said:
chilli said:
And there was me thinking I'd stopped listening to those voices in my head "get an R1, Get one now"!!
Good post
Good post
Given previous form, are you sure that's entirely wise?
Jesus how much longer is Nick going to be reminded of his mishaps. S
t happens then move on and give the guy a break 
I'd say his R6 isn't really that much slower than an R1, if anything an R1 is easier to ride as you can use the torque rather than reving (sp?) the nuts off a 600cc bike.
Andy Oh said:
Rawwr said:
chilli said:
And there was me thinking I'd stopped listening to those voices in my head "get an R1, Get one now"!!
Good post
Good post
Given previous form, are you sure that's entirely wise?
Jesus how much longer is Nick going to be reminded of his mishaps. S
t happens then move on and give the guy a break I'd say his R6 isn't really that much slower than an R1, if anything an R1 is easier to ride as you can use the torque rather than reving (sp?) the nuts off a 600cc bike.
Here, here!! Nice one Andy. I knew I'd find a friend on here one day!!!!
Yeah, the darker ones are my preference, but it would be a squeeze getting thwem both into the shed. If I sell my house for the asking price I think i'd buy one just to make sure!!
Cheers.
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