Today, out and about, bopping along some of the country roads around here. Liberates the mind. So I was reflectin' on riding on riding a classic motorbike. Tacho must be one of those Italian
vaguelia jobs, needle likes to waver a little, tells you 3½ - 4 thousand RPM and that's close enough, young man.
The favourable spread of torque means that you can let the revs down to 2,000 without any feeling that the engine is toiling. On these roads, you can certainly let speed drop to 40 in top, reported as 2½ thousand-ish, and pull away again on a gentle throttle without lugging. Nice.
I'm riding alongside the River Tweed between Kelso and Birgham, and reflecting on how the exhaust note is
mellow. Loud enough so you can hear it but not too loud. Authoritative but not offensive. And suddenly my reverie is interrupted when it all gets
MUCH LOUDER!
Bugger, what's fallen off? Stopped and found the r/h silencer had gone AWOL. Look back and it's lying in the road a few hundred yards away. Walked back for it - too hot to handle! At least COVID restrictions mean I'm wearing a rucksack. Let it cool down a bit then tied it on the rucksack. Bit bashed about but not leaving it here . . .
The ride home was, uhm, interesting. Able to make it home by a slightly circuitous route to avoid built-up areas. You become
so aware of what you're doing with the throttle. One extra millimeter sounds like an additional battery of Bofors guns has opened up! Try to avoid the overrun as well. Find the best is medium revs and small throttle. Even at that, the wood pigeons are going crazy!
It was awful at first. But by the time we were home, was almost enjoying myself. Or just going deaf.
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That's the thing about a classic motorbike. I believe it's called
character!
UK ..
