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| Suzuki GSX-R 1000 - So I did take it out on track! By Steve Gregory (your fearless photographer) |
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Having had the fear of God put into me by the other guys, it was with some trepidation your fearless photographer led this mighty beast onto the drying track at the Nurburgring. Envious eyes dance over the gorgeous ‘superbike’ colour scheme as I meekly make my way onto the track. Dented pride keeps whispering in my mind “you’ve been riding FireBlades for years” and “what’s all the fuss about then?” “It’s just a bike like any other, only, maybe, quicker…”
Second lap: Bugger that, let see what it does. A quick confident blat off the start line into a slow right then a faster left onto a long downhill high speed straight, give it some! Bloody hell! There’s a whole shedload more power, the engine explodes into ferocious mechanical motion, the bike snaps taut. Insanity! It’s difficult to hang on, gritted teeth, grim determination. Buttocks clench. The monster acceleration makes a small dent in the local space-time continuum; the next bend is dropped untidily in front of me before reality should allow and more crucially, before I am actually ready. Oops! Inexpertly, I grab too much brake and wobble pathetically around before launching into hyperspace once more. Nagging doubt gnaws at my confidence. I want to use this machine as it was designed but the track has grown much smaller and bumpier. I am not worthy. Discretion proves the better part of valour and I decide not to really open up until (a) I know where I’m going and (b) I know what I’m doing. I short shift again in ‘fast road’ mode until; the back straight! Come on then Steve-e boy, what can go wrong in a straight line? I nail it through second, quicker than you can sneeze, maximum everything. Third, wow, the scenery distorts with furious speed, arms heave, gravity groans. Warp factor four: BANG! The front end rears skywards. It’s trying to bloody take off! Easing back I glance down at the digital readout as we land - a hundred and forty five miles per hour. Good grief! Bloody-minded pride insists I take it up to a respectable hundred and seventy five before marker cones insist more strongly I should stop. Giggling and shaking I recount my tale to a jury of my peers over some caffeine I don’t really need, “I mean, there’s no warning. Then, bang…” The race boys have seen a hundred and eighty five or six down the back straight, “Yeah, it does that” is the laconic reply. I calm myself down with a well earned ciggy. “Well it’s not doing it to me” I decide. I know when I’m beat.
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Suddenly
my thoughts snap back into focus. Perhaps I’d better start
thinking more about what I am actually doing - on one of the fastest
bikes at one of the most demanding tracks in the world. Mountains
of torque haul me easily, almost lazily, between bends. It’s
difficult to find a rhythm, I’m not used to being so cautious
and, having so much power in reserve, it doesn’t click that
this machine is still going pretty damn quickly. I had promised
to take it easy though and I do. This is a great bike to short
shift, waves of smooth, effortless power hint at more to come.
I resist the temptation to find out on this sighting lap. “It
spins up out of the bends” and “wheelies everywhere”
are the warnings which keep echoing through my mind. Bends are
still coming at me faster than I am expecting, even though I’m
riding like a pussycat. A shadow of doubt flutters briefly by.
