Pan European Airways
Discussion
So I checked in, or rather out, of Heathrow at 7PM. Full leathers with Regatta baselayers, T-shirt and a fleece, the air was already 8 degrees and set to get cooler as we climbed out over Oxfordshire and the Midlands.
I settled into my First Class seat, supple leather on vinyl, cabin service courtesy of Twix and Fanta thrown down while the engines warmed up on the tarmac not 300 yards from a deceased Concorde.
The heat from the grips permeated my Pathans as the first traffic of the A30 was smoothly despatched, while the electrician's tape stuck over the extract vents on my AGV S4 stopped the two freezing patches from developing on the back of my head, an issue that had bugged me so much on the trip down two nights before. The vents can't be closed off.
A brief moment of amusement was had when some scooter boy alongside me at some lights revved his engine (well he may have,or it may have been a fart, it was hard to tell) and nodded down the road in a manner that suggested he anted to race. I was so busy laughing that he actually did, for about a hundredth of a millisecond, manage to squirt away first as the first glimmer of the amber light appeared, but 49cc were no match for 1260 and Air Traffic Control cleared me to shoot him down.
Down to the M25 and the variable limit signs are on; no trouble to split lanes as necessary to maintain a couple of MPH more than everyone else and as the autopilot shortly peeled me off up the M40 I adjusted the screen, my arse and wrists to assume intercept mode. The outside lane was as choked as the others so as I didn't want to appear an arrogant git by lane-splitting at 70+, and as the ST is anyway half as wide as a car, I took up station behind a squadron of German OLFs (outside lane fighters
) and started picking them off one by one as middle-lane gaps presented themselves.
I was caught unawares by some urban terrorist on a medium sports bike; using all three lanes and firing through gaps he was making rapid, if wincingly abrupt progress. Still, the old red mist descended, I told the autopilot to phuck off for a bit and went after him... not quite as aggressively, I might add. Even so I was confident with the big Honda's ability to slip in under most car driver's radar and find space; once through a gap the linked brakes have enough power that it was rarely necessary to reach for the front lever. The few car drivers that did see me coming and moved over perhaps assumed I was Mr. Plod chasing the other guy who, to be fair, was pushing his luck. By dint of some crafty undertaking I actually managed to pass him though and the miserable bugger didn't even wave as he trundled off down the A404 slip. Maybe he too thought I was the rozzers
The air temperature had descended a couple of degrees and by now my tennis elbow was again being aggravated by some spurious set of angles and forces that other ST riders have mentioned. The bars aren't adjustable, you can't even rotate the clutch and brake assemblies round as you can on most bikes. Although you can raise or lower the seat (not, I might add, while riding) you're still stuck with whatever geometry your skeleton dictates, and mine whines like a woman when you stick footie on instead of Corrie... so this was definitely cattle-class cramp rather than First Class comfort.
The fuel consumption was suffering too; by the time I left the M40 for the A43 the trip meter had given up working out the economy and was telling me how few miles I could do on the remainder in the tank. Pushing an ST1300 is about as appealing a prospect as trying to glide a 747 with all 4 engines out (actually the 74 would be a better prospect, IIRC from 36000 feet you have about 100 miles before you hit something hard) so I pulled into a BP station (hey, Nectar points make free digital cameras!) and filled up. I was feeling a little chilly by now; the air was down to an average 6 degrees and dipped occasionally to 5. I wished I'd put thick socks on but couldn't be arsed to dig them out of the cargo hold... er, topbox.It cost £27 to fill the tank, a pain in the wallet to match that in my arm.
Back on the A43 and the traffic was a lot lighter. The ST has a habit of making you lose track of your speed; the big fairing and adjustable screen keep off the worst of the wind blast and before you know it you're in 3-figure territory and there's a roundabout coming. A wet, slippery roundabout, probably. One of them was liberally doused in diesel; I could smell it from 20 yards away. Gingerly pottering across on the sort of line you see learners take, I made a mental note to never again buy Bridgestone tyres. They have all the feel of Edward Scissorhands, about as much wet grip as Emma Bunton and Anna Friel jelly-wrestling in a children's paddling pool and less feedback than the Carlsberg complaints line.
Oddly enough a CB1300 rider I was talking to at LHR said he uses the same BT020s as the ST and he loves them. Personally I'd rather fit skis to the bike, it'd feel safer.
The air temperature briefly hit 4 degrees; my hands were still toasty although by now moving my fingers to the brake was bloody painful. My arse had two numb patches (why oh why did Honda change from the old ST1100s seat material, you could sit all day on those bikes with no discomfort at all) and if I raised the screen beyond a certain point I got an icy draught down the back of my neck. WTF!? Luckily it made a certain amount of sense to drop the screen; for a start the wind blast helped take the strain off my elbow and the fuel economy would go up as you watched the gauge! Cruising at 85 I was getting 9.4 miles per litre (42mpg) with the screen down; it would drop to 8.9mpl with it at a reasonable height. Raise the cruise to 100 (hypothetically
) and the economy falls to between 32 and 36mpg according to screen height. My colleague in the company Transit, whilst miles behind, was enjoying 45+ mpg... what is it with bikes that makes them less economical than you'd expect?
Up onto the M1 and now we're cooking: the usual Mercedes/BMW/VW brigade are vying for outside lane supremacy and even though I'm fighting my own cold war I still find ways to get most of them behind me. The air temperature goes up and down like an ex-wife's knickers but luckily the rain holds off. Last time I rode the ST in rain I couldn't see a bloody thing no matter what I did with the screen and my visor. Maybe if I was taller or shorter, but whatever I tried I couldn't get the airflow to blow my visor clear. If I put the screen fully-up then the rain obscured my visor AND the screen... and anyway an ST with the screen fully-up is reminiscent of the days when old blokes in donkey jackets rode Honda Benlys (or Kawa GT550s) with Rickman fairings to their night shift at ICI.
Through Leics and Notts and the M1 is still behaving itself. I've long since stopped tring to get comfortable and am now clinging to the ST with the sort of arse pain that public schoolboys are well-acquainted with. Allegedly. My arm feels like it's broken and my toes are grumbling a bit, but most of me is still alive and well. The M18 exit is a welcome sight; an impatient crawl through the average speed cameras is followed by the rush of reheat as the ST grunts its way clear of the traffic and resumes a high-altitude cruise.
Imaginary missiles and miniguns sprout from every fairing orifice to annihilate any nucking fumpty who doesn't shift out of my way within microseconds. I've had enough pain now, I just want to go home. Unfortunately this attitude results in the speed rising again and as I pile down the A1M exit, nip in front of a white van and fumble for the main beam switch I wonder briefly if I might not have overcooked it this time, but the Antonov-like bulk of the Pan Euro is no match for a cluster of Nissin's finest and as I listen to the pads grizzle across the discs it's like deploying reverse thrust and we taxi sedately round the curve to line up on runway A1M. A good wriggle around in the seat, flex of the arm and a yelp into my lid and the tower clears me for takeoff again; down an unnecessary number of gears and the ST fires off a barrage from the pipes as the red line is reached and passed, reached and passed. The big V4 only spins to about 8500 rpm before the mechanical clatter suggests you'll be shooting-down low-flying artics with the pistons if you don't watch it. I've accidentally had it up around 10000, where the tacho runs out, a couple of times but if there's a rev limiter I have yet to find it.
Caution to the winds now and when I'm not being held up by artics, the next stretch of clear tarmac is covered at whatever speed the bike happens to reach. By the time I hit the new stretch past Ferrybridge I'm Sturmovik...er, storming.... the road is dry and I'm determined to get some wear on the tyres that doesn't only include the wide flat bit round the middle. I grit my teeth and try to hold tight lines round the bends, it's like trying to aerobat a B52. I'd hang off the side but that would just look bloody silly... although one of the bike mags did just that in one of their roads tests, so the ST chassis is clearly more 'sports' than it's looks suggest.
The M1 beomes the A1M again (or is it the other way round) and alarm bells ring; I've seen far too many people stopped by the Police aound the A64 junction to push my luck. Well, any more than I already am: it takes about a mile after I roll off before the bike gets down to 80.
Once clear of yet more roadworks and ANPR cameras at Wetherby the A1M opens up again, like a wilful mistress, and the ST obligingly thrusts and throbs away into the darkness. Oh for a decent seat and a new elbow. I find myself wondering whether the bionic man has to masturbate left-handed just to be on the safe side.
By the time I peel off the A1 for the A19 towards home I'm on a mission: if I get back before 11 I can catch Tesco for some croissants for my breakfast tomorrow. It's 10:15 and I'm 38 miles out. There are at least two known unmarked Police cars in that area and one of them would eat even a fast bike for breakfast. Not that I'd have the neck to try amd outrun one. I try the sprint technique: close the gaps rapidly, craw past, look in. All clear, go for it.
The air temperature plummets over about three miles and I can definitely feel the drop. From 7 degrees to 4, now I'm starting to feel some cold bits.
Dropping into the glow of Teesside I roll off to a more sedate pace; I've covered enough ground fast enough and know I'll make the shop.
The ST descends from cruising altitude, tray tables are stowed and my back assumes an upright position. I drop my landing gear outside the Chinese takeaway and nip in to order a meal before crossing the road for croissants. As I stand at the till I'm shivering, my right hand won't work properly and I feel like I've been rogered by a horse. When I get back outside the ST frowns down the High Street, I could almost swear it's been refuelled and rearmed, has heard the incoming fighters and is ready to get back aloft...
255 miles in 225 minutes including a fuel stop. Fly Pan European
I settled into my First Class seat, supple leather on vinyl, cabin service courtesy of Twix and Fanta thrown down while the engines warmed up on the tarmac not 300 yards from a deceased Concorde.
The heat from the grips permeated my Pathans as the first traffic of the A30 was smoothly despatched, while the electrician's tape stuck over the extract vents on my AGV S4 stopped the two freezing patches from developing on the back of my head, an issue that had bugged me so much on the trip down two nights before. The vents can't be closed off.
A brief moment of amusement was had when some scooter boy alongside me at some lights revved his engine (well he may have,or it may have been a fart, it was hard to tell) and nodded down the road in a manner that suggested he anted to race. I was so busy laughing that he actually did, for about a hundredth of a millisecond, manage to squirt away first as the first glimmer of the amber light appeared, but 49cc were no match for 1260 and Air Traffic Control cleared me to shoot him down.
Down to the M25 and the variable limit signs are on; no trouble to split lanes as necessary to maintain a couple of MPH more than everyone else and as the autopilot shortly peeled me off up the M40 I adjusted the screen, my arse and wrists to assume intercept mode. The outside lane was as choked as the others so as I didn't want to appear an arrogant git by lane-splitting at 70+, and as the ST is anyway half as wide as a car, I took up station behind a squadron of German OLFs (outside lane fighters
) and started picking them off one by one as middle-lane gaps presented themselves. I was caught unawares by some urban terrorist on a medium sports bike; using all three lanes and firing through gaps he was making rapid, if wincingly abrupt progress. Still, the old red mist descended, I told the autopilot to phuck off for a bit and went after him... not quite as aggressively, I might add. Even so I was confident with the big Honda's ability to slip in under most car driver's radar and find space; once through a gap the linked brakes have enough power that it was rarely necessary to reach for the front lever. The few car drivers that did see me coming and moved over perhaps assumed I was Mr. Plod chasing the other guy who, to be fair, was pushing his luck. By dint of some crafty undertaking I actually managed to pass him though and the miserable bugger didn't even wave as he trundled off down the A404 slip. Maybe he too thought I was the rozzers
The air temperature had descended a couple of degrees and by now my tennis elbow was again being aggravated by some spurious set of angles and forces that other ST riders have mentioned. The bars aren't adjustable, you can't even rotate the clutch and brake assemblies round as you can on most bikes. Although you can raise or lower the seat (not, I might add, while riding) you're still stuck with whatever geometry your skeleton dictates, and mine whines like a woman when you stick footie on instead of Corrie... so this was definitely cattle-class cramp rather than First Class comfort.
The fuel consumption was suffering too; by the time I left the M40 for the A43 the trip meter had given up working out the economy and was telling me how few miles I could do on the remainder in the tank. Pushing an ST1300 is about as appealing a prospect as trying to glide a 747 with all 4 engines out (actually the 74 would be a better prospect, IIRC from 36000 feet you have about 100 miles before you hit something hard) so I pulled into a BP station (hey, Nectar points make free digital cameras!) and filled up. I was feeling a little chilly by now; the air was down to an average 6 degrees and dipped occasionally to 5. I wished I'd put thick socks on but couldn't be arsed to dig them out of the cargo hold... er, topbox.It cost £27 to fill the tank, a pain in the wallet to match that in my arm.
Back on the A43 and the traffic was a lot lighter. The ST has a habit of making you lose track of your speed; the big fairing and adjustable screen keep off the worst of the wind blast and before you know it you're in 3-figure territory and there's a roundabout coming. A wet, slippery roundabout, probably. One of them was liberally doused in diesel; I could smell it from 20 yards away. Gingerly pottering across on the sort of line you see learners take, I made a mental note to never again buy Bridgestone tyres. They have all the feel of Edward Scissorhands, about as much wet grip as Emma Bunton and Anna Friel jelly-wrestling in a children's paddling pool and less feedback than the Carlsberg complaints line.
Oddly enough a CB1300 rider I was talking to at LHR said he uses the same BT020s as the ST and he loves them. Personally I'd rather fit skis to the bike, it'd feel safer.
The air temperature briefly hit 4 degrees; my hands were still toasty although by now moving my fingers to the brake was bloody painful. My arse had two numb patches (why oh why did Honda change from the old ST1100s seat material, you could sit all day on those bikes with no discomfort at all) and if I raised the screen beyond a certain point I got an icy draught down the back of my neck. WTF!? Luckily it made a certain amount of sense to drop the screen; for a start the wind blast helped take the strain off my elbow and the fuel economy would go up as you watched the gauge! Cruising at 85 I was getting 9.4 miles per litre (42mpg) with the screen down; it would drop to 8.9mpl with it at a reasonable height. Raise the cruise to 100 (hypothetically
) and the economy falls to between 32 and 36mpg according to screen height. My colleague in the company Transit, whilst miles behind, was enjoying 45+ mpg... what is it with bikes that makes them less economical than you'd expect?Up onto the M1 and now we're cooking: the usual Mercedes/BMW/VW brigade are vying for outside lane supremacy and even though I'm fighting my own cold war I still find ways to get most of them behind me. The air temperature goes up and down like an ex-wife's knickers but luckily the rain holds off. Last time I rode the ST in rain I couldn't see a bloody thing no matter what I did with the screen and my visor. Maybe if I was taller or shorter, but whatever I tried I couldn't get the airflow to blow my visor clear. If I put the screen fully-up then the rain obscured my visor AND the screen... and anyway an ST with the screen fully-up is reminiscent of the days when old blokes in donkey jackets rode Honda Benlys (or Kawa GT550s) with Rickman fairings to their night shift at ICI.
Through Leics and Notts and the M1 is still behaving itself. I've long since stopped tring to get comfortable and am now clinging to the ST with the sort of arse pain that public schoolboys are well-acquainted with. Allegedly. My arm feels like it's broken and my toes are grumbling a bit, but most of me is still alive and well. The M18 exit is a welcome sight; an impatient crawl through the average speed cameras is followed by the rush of reheat as the ST grunts its way clear of the traffic and resumes a high-altitude cruise.
Imaginary missiles and miniguns sprout from every fairing orifice to annihilate any nucking fumpty who doesn't shift out of my way within microseconds. I've had enough pain now, I just want to go home. Unfortunately this attitude results in the speed rising again and as I pile down the A1M exit, nip in front of a white van and fumble for the main beam switch I wonder briefly if I might not have overcooked it this time, but the Antonov-like bulk of the Pan Euro is no match for a cluster of Nissin's finest and as I listen to the pads grizzle across the discs it's like deploying reverse thrust and we taxi sedately round the curve to line up on runway A1M. A good wriggle around in the seat, flex of the arm and a yelp into my lid and the tower clears me for takeoff again; down an unnecessary number of gears and the ST fires off a barrage from the pipes as the red line is reached and passed, reached and passed. The big V4 only spins to about 8500 rpm before the mechanical clatter suggests you'll be shooting-down low-flying artics with the pistons if you don't watch it. I've accidentally had it up around 10000, where the tacho runs out, a couple of times but if there's a rev limiter I have yet to find it.
Caution to the winds now and when I'm not being held up by artics, the next stretch of clear tarmac is covered at whatever speed the bike happens to reach. By the time I hit the new stretch past Ferrybridge I'm Sturmovik...er, storming.... the road is dry and I'm determined to get some wear on the tyres that doesn't only include the wide flat bit round the middle. I grit my teeth and try to hold tight lines round the bends, it's like trying to aerobat a B52. I'd hang off the side but that would just look bloody silly... although one of the bike mags did just that in one of their roads tests, so the ST chassis is clearly more 'sports' than it's looks suggest.
The M1 beomes the A1M again (or is it the other way round) and alarm bells ring; I've seen far too many people stopped by the Police aound the A64 junction to push my luck. Well, any more than I already am: it takes about a mile after I roll off before the bike gets down to 80.
Once clear of yet more roadworks and ANPR cameras at Wetherby the A1M opens up again, like a wilful mistress, and the ST obligingly thrusts and throbs away into the darkness. Oh for a decent seat and a new elbow. I find myself wondering whether the bionic man has to masturbate left-handed just to be on the safe side.
By the time I peel off the A1 for the A19 towards home I'm on a mission: if I get back before 11 I can catch Tesco for some croissants for my breakfast tomorrow. It's 10:15 and I'm 38 miles out. There are at least two known unmarked Police cars in that area and one of them would eat even a fast bike for breakfast. Not that I'd have the neck to try amd outrun one. I try the sprint technique: close the gaps rapidly, craw past, look in. All clear, go for it.
The air temperature plummets over about three miles and I can definitely feel the drop. From 7 degrees to 4, now I'm starting to feel some cold bits.
Dropping into the glow of Teesside I roll off to a more sedate pace; I've covered enough ground fast enough and know I'll make the shop.
The ST descends from cruising altitude, tray tables are stowed and my back assumes an upright position. I drop my landing gear outside the Chinese takeaway and nip in to order a meal before crossing the road for croissants. As I stand at the till I'm shivering, my right hand won't work properly and I feel like I've been rogered by a horse. When I get back outside the ST frowns down the High Street, I could almost swear it's been refuelled and rearmed, has heard the incoming fighters and is ready to get back aloft...
255 miles in 225 minutes including a fuel stop. Fly Pan European
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