Character Infusion

Character infusion

LEANINGS

Peter Egan

WELL, I HAVE TO ADMIT IT: I SOLD MY Ducati 996 late last fall, after a summer of backroad riding and one weekend of memorable track time at Elkhart Lake with the Team Hammer Racing School.

I loved the engine, the craftsmanship, the handling and the bike’s overall personality—and I think it is easily one of the 10 most beautiful motorcycles ever built—but I could not get comfortable.

It was good for about two consecutive hours of saddle time, and I am an all-day sport ride kind of guy who likes to explore the outer reaches of existing daylight. After one very hot six-hour weekend ride, with my butt virtually aflame from muffler heat, my neck stiff and crickey, and hands partially numb, I had to admit that, frankly, I was not having much fun. Returning home, I leapt off the bike like a pilot out of a crash-landed P-38 and staggered away. The end of a beautiful, but ambivalent, relationship.

This left me without a sportbike, of course, so last week I swung to the more rational and comfortable (not to mention cheap) end of the spectrum and bought myself a Honda CBR600F4, silver and red.

This bike is so competent, well-finished, light, agile and outright fast, I simply cannot believe it can be manufactured and sold at a profit—after shipment from Japan—for under $8000. It’s like being able to buy a new Learjet for about the cost of a Toyota Corolla. It almost doesn’t make any sense.

But it is a big change. Nearly all of my recent bikes have been big Twins of some kind, as I am generally more a fan of big-bang locomotive chuffing than turbine-like rpm, so it may take a while to adjust to the electric smoothness of the 600 Four. So far, however, I’m not minding it, still riding around in the intrigued and amazed portion of early ownership.

But many of my friends have warned me the relationship may not last, mainly because the Honda doesn’t have the kind of eccentric charisma I’m used to. The magazines, including this one, concur. Several have mentioned that the Honda is “so perfect it’s dull.” And, after a mere week of riding, I have to admit the bike is nearly perfect. And I say “nearly” only for caution’s sake. To paraphrase Pontius Pilate, “I can find no fault with this motorcycle.”

Dullness? It certainly doesn’t seem dull to me. But then a 160-mph lightweight sportbike capable of winning Supersport championships may simply be beyond my capacity for jadedness. I just can’t ride fast enough to make myself crave more stimulation. Maybe Nicky Hayden finds it dull, or Miguel Duhamel?

But with every perfect tool there is always that unfortunate chance it will be seen as a “soulless appliance.” (As my friend Phil Schilling says, “Everything I’ve ever owned that actually works has been described by someone as a ‘soulless appliance.’ ”)

So, as a person who has owned way more than his share of flawed but colorful motorcycles, I have decided, as a service to Honda engineers, to give them some tips on how they might easily inject more character and personality into the CBR600F4. I hope they are taking notes. Here goes:

Install a ridiculously uncomfortable seat. Everyone knows that a charismatic motorcycle should come from the factory with a virtually useless seat that needs to be thrown away immediately and replaced with a Corbin or Sargent. The F4, unfortunately, comes right from the factory with a perfectly comfortable seat for a full day of riding. Dull.

Screw up the jetting and/or fuel injection and install a restrictive, power-sapping muffler so the bike immediately needs about a thousand dollars worth of new exhaust system and a different chip or main jets, plus a different air filter and the top cut off its airbox, to realize its full potential. Add some flat spots and low-speed surging, along with the occasional bomb-like off-throttle backfire, like my RI 100RS has. The F4, sadly, has spot-on carburetion just as it is, and is blindingly fast. You can imagine my disappointment.

Put on a tippy, defective, springloaded sidestand so the bike falls over on its bodywork at the smallest breath of wind, or if a child touches your bike. Or breathes on it. This feature has allowed a jwhole generation of 916 and 900SS owners to bond with their bikes by exploring the exquisite mechanical details during the $1500 body panel and mirror replacement process. Honda should also make the sidestand difficult to find and awkward to deploy, like the one on my old R100RS or Guzzi SP. The F4 stand is easy to find, and quite safe and stable. What were they thinking?

Arrange more vibration. Look at an old Norton Atlas. Look at pre-Evo Harleys. Experience the electric buzz of a Triumph Twin at highway speeds. Titans of character, all, and real shakers. If Honda would simply make one connecting rod about five pounds heavier than the rest, the F4’s tragic, character-robbing smoothness would be rectified forever. Also, more parts would fall off, so you could work on your bike once in a while and develop a meaningful relationship.

Require a frequent and arcane valveadjustment procedure that can only be performed by one of a rapidly diminishing band of gifted but reclusive mechanical geniuses who live in wooded rural areas on dead-end roads, about three days drive by van from your own home. The F4 requires valve adjustment at only 16,000-mile intervals. You could grow old just waiting to haul your bike somewhere exotic. Some fun.

Lower the bars and move them forward, just past the pain threshold, and raise the footpegs accordingly, so that the rider appears to be kneeling on a prayer rug in abject supplication, worshipping a pagan idol in the Temple of Doom.

Well, that isn’t everything—I didn’t even touch on oil leakage, that poorly concealed secret weapon of the British character industry. A little slipshod machining, a few bad gaskets and seals, and they’d be there. Like most other character-rich flaws, it’s easily done.

You’d think Honda would have realized by now that excellence is actually much harder to achieve than charisma.