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Honda Hornet v Suzuki GSX-8S

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Taking the Mick

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Treat yourself to a Bike subscription

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Bolton Wonderers

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Everyone loves a roundabout

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Can two wrongs make a right?

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Triples all round!

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1991 Gilera Nordwest

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December 2024

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’81 Triumph TR7T

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Easy as that

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‘Y’know what? I want one’

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SAM SUNDERLAND

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Trackday Clobber

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SIX MONTHS FROM HOME

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BRADLEY RAY

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THE VINTAGE MOTORCYCLE CLUB

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DAN LINFOOT & HIS DAD

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THE KTM DESIGN TEAM

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A RIDE WITH MICK GRANT

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A RIDE WITH RANDY MAMOLA

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Glorious ride: A land lost in time…

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GOING THE EXTRA MILES

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WHEN A BIRTHDAY PRESENT TURNS INTO THE ADVENTURE OF A LIFETIME…

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TRIUMPH AND TRAGEDY

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#### **New bikes versus our dyno, scales and datalogger**

#### Both twins, both 750cc-ish, both pleasingly popular. But the Honda CB750 Hornet and Suzuki GSX-8S are actually quite different animals. We inflict trial by datalogger and dyno to see which can stick its chest out further

#### BMW weren’t the only manufacturer to understand what an adventure bike was before they became a thing. A floundering British firm were on the ball, too…

Trust the old British motorcycle industry to poke its toe into a potentially vast market at just the right moment then run out of money and go into receivership two years after the event. The 1981 Triumph TR7T (Tiger Trail) was cobbled together after desperate French Triumph dealers pleaded for something they could punt to rival the 1980 BMW R80G/S – and the Meriden Workers’ Co ‐operative (as Triumph became in 1977) excelled themselves.

They knocked the TR7T together from their own parts bins and European-supplied cycle parts in a few months. Frame was the usual central spine oil-bearing affair, engine was a mildly detuned 744cc Tiger unit. The 21in front wheel and a pair of Marzocchi shocks were the major chassis mods for dual-purpose credibility. And it worked.

At 185kg wet, with 40bhp and 34 lb.ft, it was nippy enough for the time while the R80G/S weighed the same and boasted 50bhp. The GS, let’s not forget, was essentially an R80/7 engine in an R65 frame with a 21in front wheel. These were the only twin-cylinder trail bikes larger than 500cc available, and both from manufacturers with rich histories in big, twin-pot trailies. The problem for the Co-op was that BMW could crank their GS production up at will, while the Meriden factory was operating on a lamentably hand-to-mouth basis.

They barely had the funds to pay Marzocchi for the shocks, German firm Bumm for the mirrors, Radaelli for the steel wheel rims… and ended up making just 165 Tiger Trails.

The TR7T proved a decent competition tool; a Tiger Trail won the 750cc and above class in the 1981 Rallye des Pyrénées – beating BMW’s R80G/S to the trophy. Yet where Triumph posted that minor win, BMW brought home the big prize with a Paris-Dakar victory in 1981 (repeating the feat in ’83, ’84 and ’85). Face it: a Meriden-era twin would not be first choice for anyone planning to even reach Dakar, let alone win a Paris-Dakar. Globetrotter Ted Simon bravely employed a Triumph twin to circle the world via some fairly inhospitable environments, but he was not racing a relic with its roots in a 1937 design, merely hoping to visit his next destination without recourse to the tool roll.

The TR7T cost £1800 in 1981; the R80G/S was £2300. Both are now comfortably around the £10,000 mark if you can find a decent example. The G/S went on to become something of an institution, and the modern Triumph range boasts some impressive big trailies in a market that is now huge compared to what it was more than 40 years ago. The 1981 TR7T blazed that trail.

#### Isle of Man first-timer **Dom Mattock** finds visiting the Manx GP is something he could – and should – have done yonks ago

The Snaefell Mountain course has long held fascination, and I got really invested when Ian Hutchinson won five TTs in a week in 2010. Ever since it’s been my intention to go. But two things have stopped me. Firstly, being organised is a prerequisite and you need to plan 18 months ahead, which I can’t. Secondly, my head is full of ‘what if?’ questions, so l decide the answer is the easier-access Manx GP – ‘TT Lite’ – with pals Gary and accident-prone Chris.

#### **Getting there’s a doddle, right?**

The 2.15am Steam Packet ferry from Liverpool, land at our Douglas accommodation first-thing Thursday. One day of practice, two days of racing. Return on the Sunday. Perfect.

Then weather intervenes, and our crossing is cancelled. After frantic replanning. Chris and I book a ferry from Heysham the next morning, but this brings further complications for Gary who books a flight instead. D’oh.

The ride there via Hartington, Buxton and Settle (with the terrific Monks Road from Heyfield to Charlesworth) is great, though. At the ferry terminal we immediately bump into chatty comrades from all over Europe and settle in. Chris suffers badly from getting hangry, so I get pizza delivered direct to the terminal.

#### **How is my pride and joy treated?**

We’re anxious how our bikes –BMW S1oooR and Ducati Streetfighter V2 – will be secured on the ferry. I’ve heard dodgy tales, and details on the Steam Packet website are slightly opaque. Turns out they’re strapped down over the seat, and it’s done speedily and efficiently by ferry operatives. In fact, getting on and off the ferry couldn’t be breezier. Having sailed through a Force 9 gale, we’re unleashed with minimum fuss into Isle of Man sunshine.

Douglas seafront is geared for bikes. There’s dedicated parking but also no objections to parking on pavements. Aermacchis, Laverdas and ancient R-model BMWs from Germany and the Netherlands are everywhere.

A rearranged schedule has practice at 1pm. We head south, our journey taking in the Southern 100 course conspicuous by the black and white painted kerbs and scaffold gantries. I stop to point this out to Chris, who is blissfully unaware due to being hangry again.

After watching in awe as Chris puts away three fully loaded breakfast baps, a pre-arranged meet with friends takes us to Port Erin. We exchange superlatives about its beauty, then take the A36 (known as The Sloe) to Foxdale.

It’s like a mini-Mountain section, with beautiful tarmac and kind cambers that encourage breezy swinging rather than tear-arsing, and jaw-dropping views. ‘This place is remarkable, beyond my expectations,’ enthuses Chris. Ballacraine gives us our first taste of bikes crashing down gears and tipping in before blasting to the Black Dub. We see McGuinness on a Paton 5oo followed by Dunlop’s 250 two-stroke and Rutter on an XR69. The huge variances in line and speed are fascinating. The day concludes with a ride up to Governor’s Dip and a Thai meal.

There’s a network of roads outside the track and places are accessible while it’s live, but you need a plan. We go to the legendary Creg-Ny-Baa and sit for a cuppa with a chap and his son, who tells stories of past trail-riding derring-do and watching Dave Jefferies in his pomp. It’s ace. We also bump into fellow Leicestershire dwellers Barney and Mark Stackhouse, part of a triumvirate of Laverda Jotas.

Racing starts. This is also ace. Watching a Wiz Norton scream knee-down past a beer garden should be on every racing fan’s list. More weather delays allow us to hop to Ramsey and Parliament Square, but seems that’s it for the racing. Shame. But with the roads opened we go to Ginger Hall, turn around and ride to Ballacraine. It’s pouring down over the Mountain, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alive. Back at our hotel – wet, shattered, cold – Chris says: ‘That was one of the greatest biking days I’ve had. The place and people are amazing. I’m definitely coming back.’

After more disruptions, the ferry back is simple. We slog down the M6 and A5o, and get home tired, happy and having had an epiphany. This is what it’s all about.

#### Like cruise control, heated kit and a voice ‐controlled TV, Honda’s E-Clutch is something you never know you need until you try it. And as **Paul Lang’s** discovered, it makes the CBR650R truly desirable

By **Paul Lang** Photography **Adam Shorrock, Paul Lang**

If I had £1 for every time someone has asked ‘what’s an E-Clutch do?’, I’d still be skint. But I’d have enough loose change for a lamb bhuna and some keema rice, which, given the price of a takeaway these days, is not to be sniffed at. Then if I forgot my rucksack when I picked it up, I could wobble home on the Honda CBR650R with the carrier bag swinging from my sweaty grip, thanks to the genius of it.

Honda boffins have blended a quickshifter with a normal clutch operation and borrowed the actuator unit from their Dual Clutch Transmission (DCT). Small electric motors move the clutch plates based on your throttle position, wheel speed and the pressure you’re putting through your left foot, so you don’t need to use the lever. It delivers one of the smoothest gear changes I’ve ever experienced, both up and down the ’box – it’s eerily slick. The system can be activated or disengaged at a flick of a switch, or pull the clutch lever to disengage.

With over 30 years of riding that’s relied on left lever control, I still get nervous selecting first gear without using the clutch. The power delivery felt jerky at first and I was stalling like a newbie, forgetting which operation was engaged. But after a few months I’m a big fan. I still cover the rear brake for extra control, but with acclimatisation it works brilliantly. A launch from the lights feels like you’re flying off a MotoGP grid. B-road gear shifts are clean. There’s no helmet collisions with a pillion. And you can carry a takeaway home (don’t blame me if your onion bhajis end up rolling down the high street).

It costs an extra £130 – cheaper than most optional quickshifters. It also adds 2kg but no one will notice on a bike that’s way over 200kg. Oh, and it’s attached to a great bike. We’ve always liked Honda’s four-cylinder middleweight, and the latest CBR-R is perhaps the best yet. The power delivery is smooth and wide (especially next to rival twin-cylinder bikes), its handling is easy and natural yet with more than enough accuracy for Sunday morning silliness, and the 650 is so easy to live with… cliché time, but for crying out loud it’s a Honda. It isn’t perfect: the screen isn’t tall enough and there’s a lot of wind noise if you tuck in; the riding position feels a bit old-school Honda with outstretched arms and high knees (I don’t notice it during frisky antics but when crunching the miles I began to ache); and after about two hours in the saddle I start to develop a numb bum and tingly fingers. But these are minor on a bike with a compelling blend of build quality, performance, image and price. Maybe I’m not the right shape for its riding position, but the Honda is everything I want in the bike that stares back when the garage opens. E-Clutch seals the deal. _**PL**_

#### Ride a 500cc GP bike on the road? Who do you think you are? Except it turns out this NSR500 replica could just be the finest road-going two-stroke… ever

By **Jim Moore** Photography **Jason Critchell**

The late 1990s were arguably the pinnacle of Grand Prix racing’s battle between man and machine. A time of savage powerbands, ultra-responsive chassis and zero traction control, these were peak two-stroke – and arguably peak race bike. Ferociously competitive and staggeringly talented riders wrestling razor-sharp, unforgiving 500cc bikes beyond their limits – often with painful consequences – created a spectacle so colourful it still resonates today.

So, imagine experiencing the thrill, aggression and fizzing intensity of a pukka two-stroke 500 on the road. It’s a dream many of us have entertained. For most it remains just that, a dream. But for a few like Jamie Seneviratne, it’s very much a reality.

Regular viewers may remember Jamie and his ‘NSR500’ from _Bike’s_ December 2023 issue. We got exclusive access to drool over his HRC replica during the final stages of its build by York-based 2Moto. Jamie wanted a bike as close to Mick Doohan’s mid-’90s factory NSR500 as possible and Felix Hirzel, seasoned chassis engineer and the brains behind 2Moto, designed and built it from the ground up.

Jamie’s ‘NSR’ is a prototype, just like Doohan’s. So, although complete for our previous encounter, it’s taken months of tweaking and refinement to get ride-ready. Today, that’s what we intend to do.

I meet Jamie and Felix at an overcast Cadwell Park. As we pull up next to them in the paddock the pair are making final adjustments to the NSR. Jamie always intended his 500 to be road legal, so we’re not going on track. Instead the fast, flowing A and B-roads around Cadwell and Louth will be our playground for the day.

Although road legal, the word ‘barely’ should prefix that notion. While it’s daytime MoT compliant, there are no lights, no indicators, no mirrors and no key. Hell, there’s not even a kick-start. Firing this beast into life is a job for starting rollers, especially from cold, but Jamie assures me it will bump once warm. He did say he wanted it as close to Mick’s as possible…

Nerves build as Felix warms the stage-three tuned Suzuki RG500 square-four engine with rhythmic bursts of throttle – each blip incites a vicious crackle and a puff of sweet, white fumes from the four carbon silencers. Jamie talks me through what I need to know: ‘It’s a race pattern ’box – down for up. There’s no rear brake pedal – it’s a thumb lever under the left ’bar. Oh, and you’ll need to thrash it. It doesn’t like slow, it gets choked up.’ Roger that.

Turning left out of Cadwell onto the A153, I immediately feel like a magnet for every traffic cop in the county. The only indication that I haven’t taken to His Majesty’s highway on a full-on race tool is the numberplate tucked under the top spannies. And the lack of mirrors is already making me nervous. I need a few miles to familiarise myself with my surroundings and get used to the feel before letting it off the leash.

I was expecting torturous ergonomics; after all the chassis apes the dimensions of a pukka ROC Yamaha GP bike, the tank is an exact copy from Doohan’s ’93 bike, and Felix didn’t build this thing for touring. But it’s no more extreme than any current superbike, and there’s room aplenty to shuffle back and forth along the seat.

Holding on may be, though. Foremost in my mind are the numbers this thing makes: 130bhp at the wheel. Not much by today’s standards, but that’s a genuine 260bhp per litre – 51bhp more than a BMW M1000RR. And there’s no traction control, riding modes or anti-wheelie to tame delivery. Only my right wrist can do that. Indeed, the only electronic aid on offer is a quickshifter for the close-ratio Nova gearbox. Oh, and Felix’s ingenious electric chokes.

Power is only half of the story. The 130bhp available to my right hand propels a mere 122kg; that’s dry weight minus a battery. Even juiced it’s barely more than 130kg. Aprilia’s RS125 tips the scales at 126kg… So, we’re talking a huge amount of unfiltered power coupled with the delicate mass of a learner bike. A match made in heaven, right?

As I wind on a full helping of gas for the first time the answer is an unequivocal ‘hell, yeah’. The tacho needle races from 8000rpm to the 11,500rpm redline in the blink of an eye. Third, fourth and fifth gears are selected in rapid succession, my foot prodding the gear lever each time the shift light flashes in my peripheral vision.

Up ahead is a glorious stretch snaking downhill in a fast left-right before morphing into a double-lipped incline that then arcs right onto a long undulating straight. I’d expected the NSR to be twitchy, even slappy over such challenging topography, but instead it changes direction with the lightest tweak in pressure through the ’pegs, all the time holding a stoic groove that encourages more throttle.

It’s a complete assault of the senses, but in the best way possible. Having shifted back to third for the flip-flop and incline, we’re now aimed at the straight. Full gas again and the NSR lofts its front wheel over every slight rise – staying airborne an inch or so above the tarmac between two of the crests. All the while I’m banging in gears again – fourth, fifth, sixth – chest on the tank and head bobbing about just above the screen as we make for the end of the straight in a screaming 10,000rpm-plus wail.

The performance potential – both engine and chassis – is so large and intense that it’s a struggle to take it all in. What’s surprised me most so far, however, is not the ferocity and sheer intensity of acceleration, the lightness of input required to turn, or even the quality of damping as this lightweight missile skims over the road surface at blistering speed. It’s just how beautifully it rides.

Forget knife-edged powerbands, there’s an abundance of potent drive throughout the rev range. Things get really busy above 8000rpm, but Felix has tweaked all four Mikuni TMX53s to fuel so crisply and efficiently that this Honda wannabe is just as happy burbling through town as it is baring its considerable teeth on open tarmac. Journos lucky enough to have ridden Doohan’s bikes back in the day said they were docile enough low down to ride to the shops yet staggeringly potent at full chat. Jamie’s bike mirrors that ability.

On quieter roads away from town and traffic I get the chance to properly hustle the 500 through tight S-bends and 90-degree turns. The potential of the chassis is way beyond anything I can even begin to scratch on the road, but it’d murder a contemporary superbike in corners, so rapid and effortless is its change of direction.

Corner exits bring an undeniable urge to haunch over the front end, Doohan style, to keep the front wheel from launching skyward. Soon I’m climbing all over the thing, lost in a 500GP fantasy, blipping the throttle on down changes and teasing the rear thumb brake mid-turn.

Oh, and those front brakes. Holy moly. Any concerns I harboured about ceramic brakes not working on the road were brushed aside the first time I pulled the lever. An explosion of feel, feedback and astonishing power through a one-finger touch. ABS? Pah, who needs that? Smearing the front Pirelli Diablo Supercorsa into the tarmac is all part of the experience.

In building this, the ultimate race replica, Jamie and Felix have unintentionally created the perfect sportsbike, or at least in part. Ignore the lack of lights, sidestand (Jamie has to carry that with him) and rampant thirst for premix – this thing handles, turns, brakes, and excites in a way even exotica like BMW’s M1000RR fails to touch. If Doohan’s HRC Honda was the ultimate 500 GP bike, then Jamie’s tribute is easily the best road-going two-stroke ever built. We’re sure even Mighty Mick himself would approve.

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#### Just outside the UK’s urban sprawl lie routes of surprise and joy. Three green-lane novices scamper to the West Pennines for tuition, adventure, marvel, and fine fruit slice

By **Mike Armitage** Photography **Greg Moss**

‘I go paddleboarding sometimes, and floating down canals and rivers you see the world from a completely different perspective. This is the same – but far more entertaining and exciting. I think I need to buy a Fantic XEF 250…’

We’ve stopped on the side of a great big hill next to a curious stone structure called Pigeon Tower. An irresistible view stretches out beyond Anglezarke Reservoir and over Chorley and Leyland. The combination of stop-and-gawp scenery and the engaging ride here on lightweight enduro bikes seems to have slipped trail-riding newcomer Dom Mattock into an awestruck trance. He gazes at the horizon and pores over the purposeful-looking 250cc bikes, all the time with a daft grin across his chops.

Two things make this remarkable. First, only a matter of minutes ago we were in the outskirts of Bolton, trundling past the endless series of coffee shops, Turkish barbers and takeaways that fill every town in the country – yet here we are seemingly on top of the world. And second, my awestruck buddy is trawling MCN Bikes for Sale having only ridden the first three mucky miles of his life.

Riding green lanes and having a bit of an adventure has always enticed me. I can’t ride past the end of a byway without wondering where it could take me and have explored plenty of local tracks. But I’m a flailing fool away from hard surfaces. Over the years I’ve been given advice on how to ride on loose surfaces, but as soon as my tyres touch something not laid by a paving machine it all falls out of my head. Progress is an anxious comedy of errors.

Which is why today I’m doing the level one beginner course with Phoenix Motorcycle Training (0330 223 4000), who run trail tuition in Salisbury Plains, Kent’s North Downs, the Peak District, and here in the West Pennines (which, it turns out, aren’t actually very close to the rest of the Pennines). Dom has brought friend Sarah Dawson so that I’m not the only novice disappearing into hedgerows.

The day started with coffee and bacon cobs – sorry, barm cakes – at the Great House Barn and technique guidance from our instructor John Bilborough. Heels down, chin forward, look ahead, wrists straight, bum to the outside for corners… there was a lot to take in, but it was all delivered with unhurried calm that made it easier to absorb and helped contain nerves.

John patiently answered our stupid questions, kitted everyone out in proper clobber and talked us through the bikes. And then the day’s most important feature became apparent in the short first section of byway that delivered us to our current viewpoint. Intercoms. We’re all equipped with an earpiece, allowing John to give gentle reminders about technique and advice on approaching terrain – and it makes a huge difference. ‘I was terrified before we set off,’ says Sarah. ‘I’m not usually anxious but become tense and stop breathing as soon as I leave tarmac. It’s great having someone in your ear. It makes it much easier – they see you losing your posture and pull you back into it.’

Squeezing Dom’s daft face back into his helmet, we crack on. The day’s route will cover a series of byways with constantly evolving surfaces and a gradual increase of difficulty, linked with short spurts on regular roads. Dom and I are riding Phoenix’s tall, thin, nimble Fantics with four-stroke 28bhp single-cylinder power; Sarah is on a slightly softer-feeling Honda CRF250L, and photographer Greg tails us on a CRF450L. John’s on a rally-prepped Husqvarna 701 that has footpegs like bear traps and looks like it would merrily break my legs. ‘The bikes are so direct they initially felt almost agricultural after a road bike,’ notes Dom. ‘But I’m surprised how few vibrations there are for a single, and I love the way the Fantics deliver their power: they’re super-smooth and easy to use. The controls are very different to a pure road bike – the brake and gear lever are very in-board, tucked against the bike. I need to consciously think where to put my feet. And trying to find neutral is a nightmare…’

Cobbles turn to gravel, which gives way to hard-packed dirt with a grassy centre. The landscape cycles through expansive moorland, rolling farmland and enclosed nadgery tracks. And the sun pops out. This is a part of the world I’m not familiar with, and it’s ruddy lovely.

Every time there’s a fresh challenge or obstacle – ruts, deep puddles, twisty climbs – I stiffen, and my gaze drops as nerves increase at the unknown. But each time John’s measured instructions nudge my technique back in line. Confidence grows, and enjoyment with it. We’ve not been very far, not done more than potter, yet this is serious fun.

After a few miles of tarmac on the wonderfully tangled Rivington Road, we stop for refreshments at the Black Dog in Belmont. ‘The techniques are completely alien, but listening to the instruction helps you settle into the bits that don’t feel natural as a road rider,’ reports Dom. ‘It’s great when you nail the technique and get that balanced feeling – the bike responds and reacts so much better, so you relax even more, making it easier still. I’ve got comfy with it quicker than I thought would.’

Biggest surprise for me is pressing my outside knee against the fuel tank to turn the bike. I can’t believe the effect. Standing up, thrusting your arse to the outside of the turn and straightening your inside arm pushes the bikes down into the corner – and helps the knobbly tyres find even more grip. But then you shove a limb against the tank and the delicate 250s (they only weigh 122kg) change direction like a mid-rally ball in a game of squash. It’s a genuine revelation. And speaking of tyres and grip, the way the Michelin rubber bites into the varied surfaces is mind-boggling. As road riders we’d never expected to be able to brake or turn so hard, with so much faith.

Phoenix’s course includes plenty of opportunity to rest and take on refreshments, and we stop at the café outside the beautiful Turton Tower for homemade butties and the tastiest (and largest) piece of fruit slice I’ve ever tackled. The stops minimise fatigue, let John issue a few technique reminders and explain what the coming route involves, and allow us to pester him with more silly questions.

Dom has jumped on the 450 and is frothing about its suspension after a few miles, so I swipe the key. The Fantics look like hardcore tackle, yet their smooth power delivery and minimal mass make them a doddle to ride. But the larger bike feels even better now that (I think) I know what I’m doing. John’s told us all day that using a gear higher and going a tad faster makes everything smoother and easy to control; with its extra torque and wider spread of power – and posher suspension – the Honda makes breezy work of a steep, overgrown, footpath-width climb. I would never have tackled a section like this first thing this morning, and especially not riding a ‘big’ 450.

‘John’s point about knowing how to ride the bikes is crucial,’ says Dom as he demands the Honda key back. ‘Do it right and they’re not intimidating any more, but confidence-inspiring. The Fantic and the Honda are both sensitive to you doing the wrong thing – sensitive to stupidity and ignorance – but ride them right and they’re amazingly neutral and capable.’

The climb deposits us high in the hills again, and the sense of achievement overflows from our little group of happy riders. Sarah does a little dance. ‘I feel amazing – I never thought I’d be riding over things how I am, and it’s so much fun. It helped starting on the CRF250 before going to the Fantic but having John reminding me what to do is the biggest thing. As soon as he said it’s like cantering on a horse my brain went ‘gymkhana!’ and it made sense…’

I realise no one’s tipped off or taken an unscheduled trip into the greenery. After my previous just-wade-in trail exploits I expected a few comedy spills, yet with the right bikes and proper instruction we’ve all stayed upright. I’m disappointed that I’ve not laughed as Dom drags himself from under an upside-down bike, but it speaks volumes. Finding ourselves with yet another sensational view, across Bolton and the expanses of Manchester, drills home just what a trail bike unlocks. Despite today’s spirit-lifting adventures taking us on routes through seemingly remote environments, we’ve only been a stone’s throw from industrial estates and horrible out-of-town shopping centres. Probably only used a couple of quid of fuel, too.

Dom’s right about needing to buy a Fantic.

#### No ride-out in the 1990s was complete without a few laps and a spot of knee-down fun. In fact, for some they were the go-to place. _Bike_ readers relive their good times...

By **Mike Armitage** Pics: **Bauer archives, _Bike_ readers**

It was probably entirely our fault. Keen to please demanding designers and action-hungry photographers, no UK magazine photoshoot between the late 1980s and early 2000s was complete without a few snaps of someone’s knee being waved at the road surface. Racers had been doing it for decades, of course – it helped them go fast. Journalists did it because it _looked_ fast. And the safest, easiest and most efficient way to get the shots was to find a smooth, deserted roundabout and ride yourself dizzy.

Pushing sliders into the tarmac went hand in hand with Britain’s obsession with the sportsbike, and roundabouts became destinations rather than just convenient ways of joining a few roads together. I can remember heading to the small island where the A453, Gelscoe Lane and Top Brand converge above junction 14 of the A42 on a Sunday morning and the verges being lined with bikes, everyone watching as riders took it in turns to do a few on-their-ear laps. Bonus points if you have leather sliders. Even more for sparky ones.

We’ve assembled a few pictures from _Bike_ readers in celebration of this heady era-defining entertainment. And we’d love to see some more…

#### Today’s bikes are capable of mileages our forefathers would have deemed impossible – and we have two rather unexpected things to thank…

  
As children, most of us were told that two wrongs don’t make a right. But for bikers two things that can make our noses wrinkle – cars and exhaust emissions – can, it turns out, make things good for us. They’re the primary reason why bikes don’t break and do massive mileages.

Clean air is what we all want and need. Worldwide there’s been progressive tightening of emissions limits in this regard for many years, with the first regulations raised in California in 1966 due to ever-worsening air quality. The car industry, of course, fought back in their normal way by claiming there was no real way of meeting the regulations and it would bankrupt them. They squealed and squealed until it was obvious The Man wasn’t going to back down, then met the rules after all. However, the cost in good ol’ American hosspower was monumental. ‘Derated’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. ‘Eviscerated’ would be closer.

In 1973 the first automotive catalytic converter was produced, enabling a massive step forward in emissions control. The first ones were simple ‘two-way’ jobs that only converted hydrocarbon (HC) and carbon monoxide (CO) emissions, but they did allow tuning options that the previous best technology – thermal reactors, basically big empty boxes in the exhaust that kept gases hot for as long as possible in the hope HCs and CO would miraculously disappear – could not. Oxides of nitrogen (NOx) were later dealt with in a two-stage catalyst system where the engine was run slightly rich to reduce the NOx using some of the HC and CO in a first cat, with what was left of those then being oxidised in a second one after air had been squirted in by a pump. Complex, but it worked. Then it was realised that with sufficiently accurate control of the air/fuel ratio a single cat could do the job, and so one of the most fantastic devices ever was invented: the three-way cat (TWC).

Call me sad, but the TWC is a stupendous piece of kit. In this smallpackage all the hydrogen, carbon, nitrogen, and oxygen atoms magically get rearranged to produce just nitrogen, water and carbon dioxide. Once it is ‘lit’ this happens with 99.99 per cent efficiency as exhaust gases fly through. There is absolutely no doubt it saved the spark-ignition engine.

Anyway. When cats were introduced, engines were down on pre-regs outputs, but it was obvious it was a device that could massively reduce emissions. Obvious to all, including legislators. The stage was thus set to keep ratcheting down emissions limits, and to require compliance over ever ‐longer mileages. And to keep increasing requirements to a level that would have been impossible beforehand, while monitoring things over longer periods. Naturally, this gave rise to evermore powerful engine control systems (fuel injection, electronic throttles, variable timing – you name it).

As an example of increasing requirements, for cars we have to show emissions compliance for over 150,000 miles. On-board diagnostics have been mandated in the US and Europe so that sensors continually diagnose whether other sensors are working properly, and if not the dreaded malfunction indicator lamp (MIL) is thrown. Any problems have to be reported. In the US, if your product shows a tendency to fall out of compliance the Environmental Protection Agency can force you to recall and fix them. Every. Single. One. Through MIL lamp reporting the agency also noticed that, in general, cars had a tendency to show problems with their emissions systems after someone had spannered them badly, so they made it illegal to require any maintenance to anything in the ‘air path’ (from air filter outlet to catalyst system outlet). Except the spark plugs, which I always think is weird. This included cam drives and boosting devices. Both had to take a massive leap in durability as a result.

Other things were needed. Oil consumption had to be nailed because of HC emissions, so understanding of piston/liner dynamics had to be improved. Friction had to be reduced because burning more fuel inherently leads to more emissions (we really had to do this for CO2 emissions reduction, but it’s true for criteria pollutants, too).

> ‘Next time you smell clean air, remember achieving it has been good in more ways than one’

It’s all harder with direct injection (DI) and we haven’t mentioned particulate emissions. But you can see that, due to technologies developed and deployed because of emissions regs, the modern engine is an astounding achievement. At modern emissions levels it cleans the air; it’s way cleaner than cigarettes, barbecues, or cooking your Sunday lunch; it’s more efficient and powerful than ever; it’s super-driveable even with ridiculous power; it’s durable like you wouldn’t believe; and it’s convenient and cheap, providing great utility – in exactly the way that a battery electric vehicle doesn’t.

If you’ve got this far, you’ll be asking what on earth this has to do with motorcycles. They’re not subject to the same emissions limits – either in absolute terms or monitoring. The fact is that bike and car manufacturers share the same suppliers and consultants, their engineers move between them, and they use the same processes and tools to develop and make their products. Consequently, the whole ecosystem just improved massively. Bikes just couldn’t help but get better as well.

When I was a greenhorn engine development engineer at Norton and Lotus, I used to bemoan evermore difficult emissions targets. Then an experienced old hand said to me: ‘No, lad, you’ve got it wrong. Meeting these limits is bloody hard. And bloody hard means more people are employed for longer…’ Ever since I’ve said bring it on. Effectively the only limit we cannot achieve cost-effectively is zero. So they can ban the engine – that’s exactly what the politicians have set for tailpipe CO2 . Given the historical efforts of all those super ‐clever engine engineers, that’s hardly fair, is it? Especially when it’s the fuel that’s the problem, not the engine per se.

All that said, I find myself horribly conflicted on one thing. Emissions regulations have taken something big from the biking world – the two-stroke engine. However, this was mainly down to the type of stroker that we had grown to love: the crankcase-compression type. We could now fairly readily meet bike emissions levels with a two-stroke using things like DI, stepped pistons (as used on the Wulf engine), and variable compression ratio (easy-peasy with a two-stroke – just see the Lotus ‘Omnivore’ which used it to be able to consume pretty much anything). In these challenging times no one is going to invest in that sort of thing. Or will they? Hope springs eternal…

So, there you have it. Meeting ever-decreasing limits over longer distances and continual snooping by the vehicle controller itself has made everything super-reliable and durable over pretty enormous mileages. Everything had to step up. It’s been improving steadily and quickly over the past few decades, and the result for every vehicle fitted with an engine has been remarkable. Next time you are out for a ride smelling the clean air, remember that achieving it has been good for us in more ways than one.

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#### Yamaha finally reveal the new **R9** – a road-focused three-cylinder sportsbike with R1 genes

This R9 is Yamaha’s new flagship sportsbike – and it’s a promising combination of R1 suspension and electronics, XSR900 three-cylinder power, a new super-light frame, and a £12,295 price tag.

Clearly the R9 is massively down on power compared to the outgoing R1, which is a track-only model from next year. The R9 makes 115bhp (R1: 192bhp), but that’s the point – Yamaha want the R9 to follow in the R7’s footsteps of being a sportsbike for real road riders. Consequently, the engine is unchanged from the XSR900 and Tracer 9 – no bad thing as the 890cc triple has masses of front-lifting torque and a hilarious top end.

Not as aggressive as the R1, but hardly a fireside recliner

The aluminium Deltabox-style frame, however, is all new. Yamaha say it’s stiffer in every direction compared to the XSR900, yet has enough machined holes to give the flex required for feedback and comfort. And at 9.7kg, it’s the lightest ever Yamaha sportsbike frame.

The electronics are pinched wholesale from the R1, which means you get an advanced array of rider aids including a slide control system that lets you dial in the amount you want the rear to drift out of corners, plus all the usual modes (including four just for the track) and traction, wheelie, and rear lift controls. You can set them all up from your phone and use a different Yamaha app to monitor your on-track performance – effectively a race datalogger for trackday riders. Oh, and there’s cruise control.

Weighs the same as a Dachshund –and far less bendy

Yamaha say the riding position is sporty without ‘too much of an aggressive forward lean’ and that the clip-ons are ‘sportier than those found on the R7, but more relaxed than those on the R6 Race’. Given the R7’s riding position is one of the most aggressive of the middleweight sportsbikes, it sounds like the R9 is properly sporty. Whether that’s a good or bad thing will depend on your joint health. Being a new bike, the R9 must have wings, which Yamaha say increase weight on the front by seven per cent (they don’t say when – presumably close to the 140mph-ish top speed). More useful are the refinements made to the R9’s fairing in the wind tunnel. These reduce drag so much that Yamaha claim the R9 is aerodynamically more efficient than the R6, despite having a larger frontal surface area. Good news for motorway mpg.

Suspension-wise, the R9 borrows heavily from the R1, with the 43mm KYB forks and rear shock being similar to those on the 2025 R1 track bike. Brakes are Brembo Stylema monoblocs, and there’s a Brembo radial master cylinder, too.

The R9’s £12,295 price tag is lower than initial rumours and looks great value compared to the £12,506 XSR900 GP (sexy, but without the R1 electronics or suspension). But there again, it’s more expensive than the more powerful Triumph Street Triple RS (£11,295) and Honda CBR600RR (£10,449). Still proper tempting though…

Wanna log your lap times? There’s an app for that

Yamaha say it’s somewhere between the R7 (sporty end of comfortable) and R6 (uncomfortable end of uncomfortable). We’ll see...

It gets the whole R1 package: think of an electronic rider aid and the R9 has it.

Yamaha’s lightest ever road bike Deltabox frame weighs just 9.7kg and helps keep the overall wet weight of the R9 to 195kg.

KYB forks and shock developed alongside the 2025 track-only R1 and R6. Each fork leg now has abase valve to limit oil flowing into the bottom of the fork. This is better, apparently.

Unchanged from the XSR900 and Tracer 9: 890cc three-cylinder making 117bhp at 10,000rpm and 69 lb.ft at 7000rpm.

Bridgestone Battlax Hypersport RS11s are fitted as standard.

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#### These days a high-rise bike on small sporty wheels is nothing out the ordinary. 33 years ago it made as much sense as hi-vis camouflage. If only we knew…

Good ideas are only ever as good as their reception from a wider public. No matter how much early adopters may froth about step changes and new beginnings, if the lumpen mass market fails to respond to a new product, it’s largely all over.

Gilera’s Nordwest was a good idea, and a decent bike that presaged the production supermoto boom by 15 years. It was so ahead of the curve that supermoto was still called supermotard in France, where the dirt/tarmac sport had a fair following by the late 1980s.

Supermotard was the European offspring of Superbikers, which first appeared on US TV in 1979 as part of ABC’s _Wide World Of Sport._ The brew of motocross riders and road racers on dirt bikes (and XR750 Harleys) on asphalt and the loose stuff, with jumps thrown in, drew top riders and big audiences, until ABC canned it in 1985.

This seedling sport germinated in Europe, and by 1990 the Guidon d’Or event, held at Circuit Carole near Paris, boasted Eddie Lawson on the grid riding a Yamaha YZ490 among the regular runners. This was still a very niche discipline, yet it clearly had potential. The motocross machines looked great on 17-inch wheels with huge front brake discs, and a smattering of street replicas began to appear.

In 1991, before supermoto was even semi-officially a thing, the Gilera Nordwest arrived. The small Italian factory in Arcore had won the World 500cc Championship six times between 1950 and 1957 and had a steady domestic business going with lightweights. They’d introduced the handsome 492cc Saturno single café racer in 1988 to some acclaim, but the 558cc Nordwest was a huge conceptual leap.

The liquid-cooled DOHC single-cylinder engine was based on the factory’s RC600 which had won the Paris-Dakar production class. Cam drive was by belt, carburation via a twin-choke Teikei (one slide, one CV) and the 98 x 74mm unit produced 45bhp and 36 lb.ft. With three-spoke cast wheels and twin 270mm discs clamped by four-pot Grimeca calipers, the spine-framed device weighed 141kg (310lbs) dry. It could hit 110mph. It steered impeccably, with a steep 24º head angle and stubby 55-inch wheelbase. And hardly anyone bought one.

At £4595 it was relatively expensive for a single. A Honda CBR600 was just £5108. But, for all the CBR’s competence, the Nordwest was a blast of the future at fair money. That future was too distant for riders locked into sportsbike worship; those who might now extoll the virtues of light, nimble singles on fat rubber with top brakes.

The Nordwest wasn’t just ahead of its time. It was light years beyond what the market could even comprehend.

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Britain’s only ever Dakar winner, Sam Sunderland is fresh from another swing at the toughest race in motorcycling. Ten days of racing with one rest day in the middle. 5500km looping in and out of Lima with 70% of the special stages in sand, according to the organisers. He came third overall, and just over a week later, he’s 6500 miles away, at the Bike Shed, ready to ride with Bike.

While I’m still full of optimism for what I might achieve in the next 11 or so months, it’s mid-January and the focus of Sam’s year is already over. ‘The calendar year of a Dakar racer is super strange, because it’s over in January. It engulfs my whole life. I’m fortunate that I can focus all my energy on it, but it has to be like that. I couldn’t live a normal life then go race the Dakar.’ He explains all this in his strange stew of an accent, before adding: ‘Not many people are aware we have a world championship outside of the Dakar. I could compare it to the Olympics and the World Championships in track and field. Everyone knows when the Olympics is on.’

According to Sam, the Dakar’s move to South America, in 2009, ushered in a new era of heightened competition and, in time, the return of multi-factory team battles. ‘Everyone wants to be that guy on the top step of the podium and the margins for error become a lot smaller. It’s no longer the days of Marc \[Coma, five-time winner and now Dakar race director\] and Cyril \[Despres, also a five-time winner), who strategically raced each other. Now there are ten guys who can win the race and they’re flat out, 100% all day.

There are factory Honda, Yamaha and KTM teams. In Marc and Cyril’s era it was mainly factory KTM and the team was built around those two. Also, the nature of the race has changed. In South America the stages are a lot faster and punchier, like ten one-day races. The dynamic has changed so much, because in the Marc and Cyril days, a young guy might win two or three stages, but \[the experienced riders\] knew they could play the waiting game. Now, if you play the waiting game, or the safety game, you’re going to lose.’

We push the pair of KTM 1290 Super Adventure Rs from the enclosed bike park towards Shoreditch’s Old Street. Before we climb on, Sam knocks sand out of his Red Bull-painted helmet. The granules are from Peru. I decided to wear a motocross lid too, suspecting that’s all Sam would have and thinking the symmetry might work in the photos. I knock some sand out of mine as well. It’s from Mablethorpe.

We leave the Bike Shed to ride around the capital. The road’s slimy as a slug’s foreplay, the streets Dalmatian spotted with polished manhole covers. To me the KTM feels the size of a shire horse and I’m nuts-to-butts with 6ft 3in of photographer. Let’s do this! Sam almost immediately ‘brapps’ the 1.3-litre V-twin, spinning cold tyre on slick surface. I’m embarrassed to admit I had wondered how he’d take to riding in London. By concentrating on the attention-grabbing helicopter footage I’d forgotten the ‘liaisons’, long stretches, as much as 500km in one day this year, that precede or follow the timed ‘special stages’.

‘I’ve ridden through a Bolivian snowstorm at -2˚ and 4000m altitude,’ Sam points out, ‘You just suffer. Nobody enjoys it, but the suffering adds value to the result. The Dakar I won, 2017, the last special stage was only 60km. I finished it, won the rally, celebrated with my team, then rode 700km to Buenos Aires under control. I could have still lost the race if I crashed, had a mechanical, or broke the speed limit. I was bored, fed up, but I’d just won the Dakar. 700km at 100kph, that’s seven hours, following the rules of the road, with the vibration, the noise, everyone has to do it, it sucks.’

We’re not out for long before I see Sam stuffing his hands between the bodywork for the heat coming off the motor. The fluster of handling the bike with a gangly photographer swaying on the back is enough to keep me warm as we head towards London Bridge. The 2019 Dakar podium was a KTM clean sweep. The team started the race with the last three Dakar winners on their 450s: Toby Price, Matthias Walkner and Sam. Price won his second Dakar, riding the entire race with a broken scaphoid. KTM have won 18 Dakars in a row. The Australian finished the race in a combined special stage time two minutes shy of 34 hours.

The Austrian Walkner was nine minutes back, with Sunderland four minutes off second place. As you can imagine that’s only part of the story. ‘On day five I had to stop for Paolo Gonçalves who crashed in front of me. In those moments the race comes second, you care about the other rider as he’d care for you. As much as you’re fierce competitors, you know the guy you’re giving the eyeball to at the start could be the guy saving your life in 30 minutes. ‘I saw the crash and it was bad. I helped him until the medics arrived and got him in the helicopter. While it’s nobody’s fault, that changed my strategy for the race a lot. It hampered my chance to be on the podium, but I kept fighting like hell.

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