By Peter Tanshanomi
...as if anyone would still care.
| During the 1987 AMA Superbike Nationals, I camped in the infield of Brainard International Raceway with a bunch of guys from a Yamaha dealership where I had worked previously. On Friday afternoon, the general manager tossed me the key to his brand new FZR1000 — the world’s fastest production motorcycle at the time. I was the straight-laced one of the bunch; he said, “Keep that. I’m gettin’ stoned and drunk tonight. Do whatever you want with it, but have it back to me in the morning.” I went out riding and a good distance outside of town I came around a bend to find a stretch of empty, smooth two-lane backtop perhaps two miles long — flat, arrow-straight and recently repaved, with nothing but Minnesota timber on either side. All that was missing was a shaft of light from heaven and a female chorus going “Ahhhhhhh…!” If there was ever a chance to find out “what she’ll do,” this was it. I nailed the throttle at about 70 MPH. I found the top-gear roll-on on that bike remarkable, to say the least. Sure, there are midsized bikes that are faster nowadays, but keep in mind that I had never achieved “the ton” up to that point, on two wheels or four. Even my vintage roadracing Bultaco was only geared for 98 MPH flat-out at redline in top gear. I tucked down behind the screen and was amazed at how still and calm it all seemed as I continued accelerating at triple-digit speeds. At 145 indicated — which was probably about 130 actual — the big Fizzer was still pulling fairly well, but I lost my nerve and shut ‘er down out of sheer self-preservation. I thought, “well, they finally built a bike that goes faster than I ever want to go.” I’ve never tried to attain that sort of velocity again. |