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The Joy of Hayabusa

The Suzuki Hayabusa is a very large, very sexy motorcycle that my friend Drow recently purchased. While its name comes from the small, extraordinarily quick Japanese Peregrine Falcon, a more colloquial translation is "shiny land missile that excites every woman within fifty yards". This isn't to say that men ignore the bike - they tend to drool, walk into poles and spontaneously crash cars as much as the women, but a lot of men do that anyway when presented with totally obscene toys. The gorgeously-designed Hayabusa seems to hold a particular fascination for the fairer sex, most likely hitting them with the twin thunderbolts of "men who ride motorcycles are bad news, and therefore exciting" and then "anyone who owns this particular bike has money, and can provide well for me and my offspring". I fear for the day when Drow passes a busload of female sumo wrestlers, they rush to one side of their vehicle, and he is killed as the bus tips over, crushing him instantly. Somehow, I doubt this is how he wants to go.

Male reaction to the bike ranges from pursed lips, narrowed eyes and almost-imperceptible nodding, up to complete loss of brain function, typified by the owner of a minivan who wanted to drag the Hayabusa off at three consecutive traffic lights (without delving into the exact mechanics and physics of the situation, he had a slightly better chance of beating the bike off the line if he had been driving a large tree). Darker extreme emotions are fairly rare, because the bike is simply a joy to behold. The best criticisms I have heard regarding the Hayabusa are "It's just too big" or "I'd kill myself on that thing", which seem to be more expressions of personal inadequacy. That said, a guy in a battered Gemini did actually pop the finger as the bike slid past, obviously believing that the opinion of an agricultural labourer would cause Drow to plow us into the nearest steel smelting pit to purge himself of the shame. Thanks buddy, but there seem to be still too many women to impress and velocities to exceed, and it doesn't look like you'll be helping with either anytime soon.

Most riders in Queensland learn on 250cc bikes, and upgrade to higher-powered models when they get their open license. Due to technology developed by Japanese engineering ninjas, modern 500 or 600cc engines generate tonnes of thrust, and with a good rider on a tight winding track, these lighter bikes can actually outperform their larger brethren. It's in a straight line that the 750, 900 and 1000cc models tend to crush the competition, stomp on the pieces, and laugh about it with their friends. Big bike engines are akin to rocket boosters, huge propulsion systems capable of long, steep acceleration curves that continue to smash your eyes back into your skull well after you've run out of road. Such a rider not only wants to go fast, but wants to go faster and faster until their grin can only be removed with radical plastic surgery. This cheery image brings us back to the Hayabusa, with its truly gigantic 1300cc engine.

Now, the Hayabusa isn't the only 1300cc motorcycle in existence, but the others are generally touring-class behemoths like the Goldwing, which can double as aircraft carriers or oil drilling platforms when necessary. They're built for languid cross-country cruises with friends, the radio and air conditioning on, watching the world glide by while soaking in the jacuzzi. The Hayabusa is most definitely not one of these machines. It's a sports bike, a beautifully-crafted weapon forged to annihilate distance, warp time, and banish boredom. If bikes were drugs, sports bikes would be pure, crystalline speed. Tourers would be marijuana. Sports-tourers would perhaps be guarana, for people who want a thrill but are too scared to try real drugs. Since riding any type of motorcycle is inherently dangerous, sports bikes seem to make the most sense, at least philosophically. Yes, you've got a stripped-down, performance-built engine between your thighs. Yes, there's very little between you and the road, or that tree, or that traffic. Yes, there's a chance you will die. Relax? Not on your nelly.

The GSX-1300R Hayabusa's massive engine also eliminated the slightly downcast look Drow had when he took me on the back of his other bikes (a Yamaha YZF-750 and a Suzuki GSX-750F). They're fine machines, but they're really built to take cute, slender female passengers, not hefty ex-rugby players whose childhood hobby was eating meat. While the rush factor on those bikes was definitely high, the Hayabusa was another level above anything I'd experienced before as a wild-eyed passenger. Instead of "wow, that's pretty fast", I managed a choked "urk" as the bike blasted off and powered onwards, up hills, through corners and beyond the limits of space and time. It felt as though the bike had taken hold of the road with some great, terrible hand, and was busily yanking it into crazy knots.

The grips at the back of the passenger seat had been great for flexing my forearms at traffic lights, but were fairly horrible to hang on to at high speeds. After nearly becoming a permanent fixture on Mount Coot-tha a few times, I switched my position, leaning forward to splay my fingers on the fuel tank, gecko-style. Snuggling up to Drow was another option, but then every time he hit the brakes, my full weight would plough forward and hit him in the back, and I was really, really trying to avoid breaking his concentration. Holding onto the fuel tank also meant my fingers thrummed in tune with the engine's roar, as if I held some unearthly power in my hands. Such delusions are always attractive.

Since the bike turning into a rapidly expanding cloud of debris is the rider's problem, being a passenger is much like riding a roller coaster - without the long queues, set track and safety standards. There's just one thing a motorcycle passenger really should do, and that's follow the rider when they lean over. This leaning is not showing off, or for road surface inspection, it is for the express purpose of steering the vehicle. Not leaning is like holding onto the steering wheel in a car, except the driver can't easily punch you in the face and make you let go. Drow had told me horror stories of passengers who tried to stay upright, or even lean in the other direction to balance things out, so I did my best to keep myself in line with him as he moved. Having your view of the road obscured by your rider's helmet is a little perturbing, but can result in all kinds of fun surprises with things you haven't seen yet. If your rider has a nice shiny helmet, you'll get to see your terrified expressions reflected back at you, too.

If all this sounds a bit stressful, it's because it is. It's assumed that you have some good measure of intestinal fortitude when you hop on any motorcycle. If you're lacking in this department, stay the hell home and watch Big Brother, or alphabetize your CDs or something. Don't ruin other people's fun by getting all surprised and dying of heart failure, going insane or causing accidents. If things get too intense, grit your teeth and hang on. Engine noise and wind will drown out your screams anyway, and sparing a hand for signals or tapping your rider politely on the shoulder will likely see you fly off the back and die. When the ride is over, you'll be so relieved to still be alive you won't say anything bad to your rider, you'll vow to yourself never to ride with them again, and everyone will be happy.

If you have an adamantium skeleton and a mutant healing factor, you'll probably ride with anyone, on anything, in any conditions. The rest of us should give each prospective rider a long, hard look before placing our lives in their hands. The condition of their bike is a good start, because it reflects their attitude about the whole dangerous game. Bald tyres, leaking fluids and broken bodywork are not good. "Special modifications" are also a bit worrying, particularly if they involve weight reduction by the removal of vital parts. Ignorance of weather and road conditions is another bad sign, particularly if vast amounts of machismo are involved. Rain, sleet, snow, ice, wind, loose gravel, potholes, lying roadsigns and small children are usually minor annoyances, but can have a drastic effect on the enjoyment of a motorcycle ride. Be extra careful of riders who ignore insane conditions because Dammit They Made A Plan, such as a weekend ride with a pretty girl they want to impress.

Physical attributes such as reflexes, co-ordination and balance are vital, as riding is essentially a sport. If a person can't use a hammer or sew a button without injuring themselves, it's unlikely they'll be able to maneuver a motorcycle at high speed. People with nicknames such as Un-co, Klutz, Damage and Kamikaze usually fall into this category. The mental outlook of a rider is a trickier point - having a deathwish is not good, but neither is being scared to take the bike out of the driveway. Overconfidence and delusions of invulnerability have their drawbacks as well - remember what happened to the last guy whose partner was told "Your ego is writing checks your body can't cash." Personally, I look for a sense of adventure comparable to my own, tempered by a healthy respect for the road, a clear vision of one's own limitations, and a firm belief in other people's incompetance. Drow seems to fit that bill quite well.

Perhaps the ultimate guideline for choosing a rider is the regularity with which they have accidents, and the amount of personal injury they sustain. After all, a person can take care of their bike, respect road conditions, be mentally balanced and still crash all the time. Such people are usually referred to as hopeless. While their stories about skidding on their head for twenty metres, crashing into a ute and breaking both wrists are highly entertaining, going riding with them is a bad idea, unless you like the smell of betadine.

Of course, all of this excellent advice goes out the window if the rider is really, really good-looking. Hey, it's your funeral.

Drow says he's hit a top speed of 240kph on the Hayabusa, but I'm pretty sure he's lying, because that's illegal. We didn't get close to that velocity on Mount Coot-tha, but it didn't matter. It was enough to leave me trembling, and babbling, and wondering why my face felt stretched. I'm not entirely sure I believed him when he said my hundred extra kilos over the back tyre made traction really good - if so, I'd expect Hayabusas to come with a bolt-on dummy passenger as standard. It was nice to be considered valuable ballast though.

After the ride, the Hayabusa didn't just have insects splatted on the front shield, they were smeared into trails nearly a foot long. At least the bugs had a last fun ride before oblivion, I guess. The footpegs had scraped on the road too, indicating we'd been cornering low enough to scare the bike's designers. Heat shimmered off the engine and exhausts, but the Hayabusa had so much more to give, I could feel it. It was like hitting a bouncer in the face with a steel bar and having him smile back at you. If I ever bought a Hayabusa, I'm pretty sure I'd be dead within a week, either from bodily damage or massive sensory overload. Knowing someone who owned one, however, was just about perfect.