I’ve alluded, have I not, to the aspect of my having a new motorcycle. I’ve been deliberately holding back on this to give the matter some consideration and now feel the time to gently expound on this matter further, to wit, attempt to convey a sense of actuality devoid, where possible, of emotional discourse thereby presenting, gently reader, a body of texts that’s not full of ‘fuck yeah,’ ‘cunt that!’ and ‘suck on my cock-pipe.’
The Husqvarna sm610 (known as ‘Brutta’ –this means ugly woman in Italian) is a very different creature to the Black Bitch, the 1999 Triumph Speed Triple I’ve recently sold to one of dad’s mates. A few words on this, you may find it amusing that I point blank refused to sell her to someone who I suspected wouldn’t give her the same care and attention as I did. The recipient of the Black Bitch is a vintage bike enthusiast; there can be no better home than that.
The reasons for selling have been mentioned previously. The journey I’ve been taking since moving to Hackney would’ve killed her. The City is lethal for engines, stop/starting, prolonged periods of sitting in boiling hot traffic that cook the engines, incredibly poor road surfaces and it’s full of wankers. After a few shots in and out of the Square Mile the engine had already began to indicate stress, in short, the bike was too powerful and elderly to cope with the situation on a daily basis. I stood to lose both my bike and whatever fiscal value that remained within, at the time of selling she was in excellent condition, if you’d read this post in six months time the story would be dramatically different.
I couldn’t have afforded a new bike if it wasn’t for the generous sum left to me by granddad who’d instructed me from beyond (via his will, not some séance on a wet afternoon) to ‘enjoy’ the money, ‘spend it wisely’ which I have done. Buying a brand new machine isn’t ideal, you’re giving a proportion of the money to the fucking government for nothing and the asset depreciates instantly but a second hand version of the bike that ticked most if not all the boxes wasn’t possible so I was left with a choice, buy new or get something else. At least with a new machine I have a warranty and the chance to run it in from the off which sets the groundwork for it’s future -and with this particular model I get all I need and the convenience of being able to park it in my tiny garden away from those that seek it harm (thus reducing insurance costs by almost 50%.)
Having said all that, practicality is never a good reason to do anything when it comes to matters of the heart. The aforementioned benefits were mere trim when it came to the essential reason to buy the machine I did. For a kick off it looks mental, even stood still, parked up, it looks like it’s going to hurt someone. Unlike the Black Bitch that sat squat over the road like a pitball, Brutta is tall, lean and spiky. The Bitch’s three 333cc cylinders would roar, the fucking bark of the single 600cc cylinder shakes the road and makes my pee pee go all funny. Actually, the sound alone is a good reason to buy one.
The straight-line speed of The Husky isn’t comparable to the Triumph who was much faster in the open, but the city isn’t ‘open,’ Brutta may have a third less power but it’s all-usable. The fucking thing will outmanoeuvre a chess Queen and will corner faster than a sportsbike (fact: proved it this morning when undertaking a knee-down R1) I was perfectly shocked with joy how simple it is to nail it in and out of turns, actually, I’m still running it in so am being careful, perhaps ‘tap’ is more apt.
This is cornering ability is in part due to the seat, only a few inches wide and designed so that the rider may shift his weight from the front to the rear to aid weight distribution, but the downside is that it’s not the most comfortable of bikes and far cry from the veritable chair I was until recently familiar. Still who needs a seat when one can stand on the pegs in order to literally jump over speed humps, I don’t even have to de-accelerate, on the contrary a blip of berries just before the jump, I mean hump, will clear both wheels off the deck. What fun…
…and that’s the essence of it. Fun, more fun I’ve had on bike in years. It’s like a bloody toy and takes me right back to my teens when I used to do Motocross. To sum up, it’s like 40 going on 14 and for that I’m pathetically grateful to Granddad for letting me carry on like the fucking idiot I am. Hurrah!
