Letter to Motorcycle Sport & Leisure (Sept 2018)

The late 1970s and early 1980s really were the greatest motorcycling years. Roads had improved but weren't that congested, a run through the centre of London was a pleasure and a blast to the nearest coast a breeze. The law was enforced in person, not remotely, and often sportingly by an officer riding an R80.
But above all, gone were the oil seeping, underpowered British bikes and in were the smooth, reliable and powerful Japanese machines. Bigger, but not unwealdy like some today,  comfortable and uncluttered, they were simply wonderful. It would be foolish to fault modern electronics and the safety their systems can give, but there is nothing like the connectivity you felt on one of those old naked 1000cc fours. Just you controlling a superbike, with two brakes and a throttle.

Letter to The Times

India's Independence

Sir, I wish to announce that in 2022,  to commemorate 75 years since India's Independence, and to celebrate my 66th birthday and the receipt of a state pension, I shall be buying a Royal Enfield Bullet. Once British, this motorcycle is now built in India but has changed little since 1948, except that it now boasts a modern control system and would probably get you to the moon and back.

The Mother Road. Part 5, New Mexico

New Mexico announced itself with pride: an enormous gantry sign spanned the entire width of the road, a transition further west on our 2700 mile road trip across the US. Stopping in Santa Rosa for lunch, there was a motor museum to visit and a comfortable diner to eat in, both occupying the same building and each geared for Route 66 clientele. The museum was decked out with memorabilia: duke boxes and pictures of Marilyn Munro and illuminated petrol station signs made the walls all but invisible, like the floor, which was covered in the most beautiful cars you could ever wish to see. Big, curvy windscreens, flared boots and massive fins, bulbous bonnets and grills. And gorgeous paint, so deep that even the blacks and dark blues appeared vivid and alive.

The three of us sat in the diner, Sue, Andy and me, in a booth opposite a row of chrome and red stools that lined the counter, true American diner style. The museum's entrance was guarded by a 70 something-year-old who regaled us with the history of the construction of the nearby Interstate 40. Corruption, he told us, had meant that millimetres skimmed off the surface of the road over hundreds of miles lined the pockets of construction bosses and officials, while their sons got plum jobs. The truth, bitterness or just good old rumour, it was hard to tell. Believable, certainly, but so are many myths trotted out over so many years. The interstate, though, was recent history and despite the intrigue, The Mother Road had a far more interesting past.

Route 66 was named The Mother Road by the author John Steinbeck because so many people owed it their lives. Even in the early days, the importance of the route was recognised by government funding that helped transform an often impassable track into a major highway. From north-east to south-west, Route 66 is the only diagonally running highway in the US and one of the longest. It travels through three time zones and has been used by farmers heading west to seek employment during the Great Depression, troops heading to and from the Pacific during WW2 and holiday traffic in the years that followed. It has always been a trucking road, feeding the ever expanding West. And now it was helping an English couple and their new Scottish Australian friend and two rented Harley Davidsons get all the way from Chicago to Santa Monica.

But not before a rest day. EagleRider had booked two nights in a hotel on the outskirts of Santa Fe, and that's where we headed after leaving the car museum. I must admit, I was looking forward to a day off the bike, not that either of us felt we needed a rest but we felt that it would be a nice change - and it was for just one day. 

There's a lesson, of course, one we all learn early in life, that goes like this. If life is good and you seem to be living the dream, and then on top of that there's something within this apparent utopia that's going to make it even better, something in a seemingly ideal world that you are actually looking forward to, then look out. It happened to us that afternoon, just like it did to some people on the Titanic - we got wet.

If there was one thing near perfect on this trip it was the weather. Only near perfect because of two occasions, the first on that afternoon, on our run into Santa Fe. Both Sue and I had brought limited bad weather gear with us, mainly out of space and packing considerations: we'd flown into the USA wearing motorcycle jackets and carrying crash helmets and just enough gear to pack into the Harley's panniers and top box. So, with simple lightweight leggings, we endured. (I was also wearing a Berghaus waterproof hiking jacket over my Triumph leather and Sue's summer Scott gortex filled all roles.) The Harley, it has to be said, was perfect in the wet. I sunk down in the seat, all 6'7” of me, and the batwing and screen deflected the water. Leg shields did the rest, while Sue hid behind me. For a while the rain seemed pretty intense but it eventually dried up and we arrived at the Marriott hotel, Santa Fe in the warm and dry.

Santa Fe was like many of the other US conurbations we'd visited: four lane roads, laid out in a grid pattern, lined with chain fast food outlets and diners. We walked out to one for dinner. The footways were deserted, save the few people walking from their cars to one of these eating places. There were no pedestrians or cyclists, just cars rushing from block to block, light to light. It wasn't until the next day that Santa Fe truly revealed itself, when, after a bit of a lay in, we took the hotel's shuttle bus into the old town. (I'd asked at reception about walking into town. The look I got from the lady behind the counter was similar to that of Sigourney Weaver when she first saw the Alien.)

Henry, our driver, a Brazilian who had moved to the city from California, gave us the low down on where to go and what to see. First, it was a breakfast that comprised pancakes for Sue and a Mexican sausage type thing wrapped in a pancake type thing for me. The coffee was strong, which was a bit too much for Sue; my chillies were on the side, and remained there. It was busy, the footways outside were starting to flow with people and the sun was shining. But was it authentic, real America?

We live close to Lyme Regis in Dorset, a beautiful seaside town of coffee shops, gift shops and galleries. It has wonderful views that haven't altered for centuries - but don't be fooled, this is no eighteenth century English village. Nearby are the out-of-town supermarkets, nationwide fuel stations and fast food outlets. You arrive in Lyme after turning off the major road network. Mesmerised by seascapes and valley views, you're seduced by its loveliness and attribute authenticity, because in the landscape you are seeing timeless glory. Not so on the run to the historic, old town of Santa Fe; but there's no difference.

Our route through Santa Fe was flat with no view of the downtown area and that made all the difference.  (The city is high on a steppe with the Sangre De Cristo mountains to the north east.) Henry took us along the four lane, dead straight, corporate lined roads and into the historic town. The change was like arriving at an enormous sand castle after travelling through a modern retail park. But this architecture was like nothing we'd seen before, except maybe in spaghetti westerns, and the Spanish style buildings made it a remarkable place: a real legacy of the old US South West. After eating, we wandered around visiting several galleries, the old railway station, a state government building and had a chat with a couple of motorcycle cops.

Many of the galleries exhibited figurative work, both paintings and sculptures. Some were massive, colourful pieces depicting native Americans or North American animals. In one gallery where full size wolf sculptures sat outside, we spoke to an artist's wife who worked there. Her husband's paintings hung along the length of one wall. One, which showed a group of Pueblo Indians riding towards a forest with a low sun bursting through the trees, was priced at $30,000. In another gallery the owner bemoaned the corporatisation of the US and the demise of small, independent enterprise: the big boys are taking over, he told us.

The railway station was a working transport link with a diesel idling ready to carry passengers. The platform and waiting area formed some sort of museum. At the state government building we listened to a schools debating society competition that was taking place in several of the assembly rooms. It was interesting and in many ways reassuring that there were some pretty capable people on their way – leaders of the future, maybe. The debates ranged but one on climate change caught our interest. I suppose you must bear in mind that these young people were in a sense advocating for the sake of argument, so some of the views expressed might not represent their true opinions. One spoke for the allotted thee minutes on the need for a 5% tax on fuel to subsidise the fitting of solar panels on both residential and commercial property. His 'adversary' told the audience of his peers, teachers and an English couple that this was the US not Europe, and business, not government should decide.

Two motorcycle cops were parked at a garage we walked past. Their 1400cc Kawasakis were fitted with computers that did just about everything bar ride the bike. The officers themselves had pistols, automatic rifles, tasers, CS spray and asps. They rode in short sleeved shirts. We chatted a while and wished them safe years to retirement.

Santa Fe was an incredibly clean place with no litter or graffiti. Once a year, we were told, native American tribes converge on the town to celebrate their culture and to trade, although their influence was ever present, or so it felt. That and the obvious Mexican history and presence made it an really interesting place and the day flew past. We had coffee in a cafè before heading off to catch the shuttle bus back to the hotel, and watched a group of motorcyclists huddled around some Harleys lined up in the road outside. Many wore the sleeveless denims associated with biker gangs. I noticed they had West Fort,Tokyo decorating the back. Another EagleRider group, we assumed.

The next day we rode to Gallup. It was a great day's ride, starting through some of the surrounding hills in the mist. I had the satnav set to our default preferences for the trip: avoidance – fast roads, unmade roads and toll roads; preference – fastest. This wasn't always the best and we had to be a bit flexible unchecking fast roads occasionally, especially in the west where roads are fairly sparse. If we didn't, a 200 mile journey could become a 300 mile one just to avoid a few miles of interstate. Anyway, even with the satnav we got a bit lost leaving Santa Fe.

Andy had joined us from his hotel and we headed off. It was soon clear we were on the wrong route. There were bends, little bits of habitation and slopes the like of which we had not seen since we arrived in the US. This was mining territory, it transpired, and we were on the Turquoise Trail, a scenic highway that passes Placer mountain and then on through the Cibola National Forest before reaching Albuquerque. From there we followed the pre-1937 alignment of Route 66. This was typical western desert with distant escarpments of red sandy rock straight out of the cowboy films. The weather warmed, the road flattened and became long and straight again, lined with sand and scrub. A train of over a mile long swooped in from the opposite direction, as track and road converged, the driver sounding its whistle, which made us wave joyfully.

The whole thing was like a dream, where you could so easily switch off from the fact you were riding in the real world, forgetting the care and concentration that are always needed. We were riding a Harley Davidson across an American desert, like people in the films. The road undulated, gradually, but because it was straight the dips, or the distance between them, was not entirely obvious – particularly if you're not taking reasonable care or concentrating. I saw a motorcycle stopped on the opposite side of the road with a couple standing next to it and crossed towards them, wondering if they needed any assistance. As I did, a yellow Camero convertible came towards us out of a dip in the road. I swerved back onto our side just as the chap standing next to the motorcycle gave us a thumbs up. Later, Andy, who was riding behind at the time and who stayed on the correct side of the road, told me the look on the face of the Camero's driver was one of shock, disbelief and the thought of possible compensation. Later, I laughed it off saying at least I recognised the make and model of car that could have killed us. But it wasn't funny, I had made a serious error and vowed not to be too seduced in future by the wonderful situation that unfolded every day, no matter how unreal it felt.

Hot weather returned the next day along with the desert, as we headed for Arizona and probably the most memorable part of our journey.

Letter to the i newspaper (published 10.8.2018)

Although, in her article(the i newspaper 9.8.2018), Sharon George highlighted the need for standardised materials for single use plastic and saw one solution to the plastics problem in consumers taking their own containers to shops so they can be reused, there is another important aspect to single use.

Single use is a term coined by industry, and nothing has to be single use, as Sharon mentioned. If standardisation involved shape as well as material, used food containers could easily be collected and reassigned to become the packets of screws you by at B&Q, or any other non food item that inevitably comes wrapped in plastic. All plastic containers should have many lives before they're considered for recycling.

i newspaper 11.8.2018

The Mother Road. Part 4, Texas

Frontage roads were old strips of concrete and tarmac that hugged the interstate, sometimes on one side, sometimes swapping to the other; the old road that the nearby six-lane highway had simply bypassed. Partly because of them our journey so far had been absolutely wonderful. We seldom mingled with other traffic and only when passing through the occasional town were we forced to slow or stop. The Mother Road was making its own way across America despite being shadowed by its own future.

I found myself making comparison with past experiences of travelling in the US, putting them into the context of time to make sense. I travelled North America back in the 1970s, spending time hitch-hiking, riding the Greyhound and generally bumming around. Now, with a credit card and a life of property and obligation, I think romantically about my youth but forget that travel experiences are usually age specific and I wouldn't want to do now what I did then. And in some ways I'm pleased I couldn't afford then what I can now, as I would have missed so much of what it is to be young. One country, two road trips; each almost unrecognisable to the other.

Even now I imagined that without the interstate (all be it in the distance) we'd be riding across a country almost completely devoid of any trace of people and the stuff that goes with them, with unobstructed views in every direction. But then we would have been on a road choked by an endless procession of cars, trucks and exhaust fumes. As it was we were able to ride alone on our own almost exclusive strip, blissfully watching the road ahead and the ground on either side while forgetting all else. Well, except on that our first day in Texas, when the Harley's fuel gauge became the focus of our attention.

I'd read in one of the route guides that it was advisable to keep an eye on fuel levels the farther west you travelled on The Mother Road, as gas stations would become less frequent. I was pleased with the Electraglide's fuel gauge, it gave a pretty accurate and, equally important, consistent reading. A few years back, I had the loan of a Honda Blackbird for a week and while I got used to the idea of riding a washing line, I never felt happy with the fuel gauge, which took an age to get down to the half full mark but from then on behaved like a rev counter when you turn the engine off. Worrying, it was. But now I was worried all over again, not because I'd been caught out by the Harley's range of about 160 miles, or its fuel gauge, which had dropped steadily to a quarter of a tank, but by the lack of fuel stations. Seemingly far from anywhere, we rumbled on past derelict motels and gas stations long abandoned. A cloud settled over me and smiling glances at the surrounding scenery were replaced by nervous ones at the fuel gauge.

A group of young European lads in a rented car instantly took to their phones and started looking up the nearest gas stations for us at a small western style cafe/bar that had enticed us to stop. There was nothing suitable, sadly, and with gratitude we continued our journey. In another small community, I spotted a couple of pumps that were obviously for the use of local farmers. They stood, one diesel and one 87 octane gasoline, engrained with oil, uninviting, and next to an equally grubby shack. I was tempted to risk a small amount but remembering the instructions from EagleRider to use nothing lower than 93 octane, thought better of it, regretting the decision as soon as we had passed on through. The fuel gauge carried on dropping; I slowed. Then, as if my silent prayers were actually being listened to, we arrived in Shamrock.

It's a funny thing that when you need something to come along, like a bus, two arrive. And so it was in Shamrock. We stopped at the U Drop Inn cafe, a Route 66 attraction run by the local council, bought a couple of souvenirs, drank coffee, took some photographs and chatted to Hazel, an 80 something-year-old lady who volunteered there. Hazel had lived in the area all her life and told of how her family moved into town from local land during the Second World War, when petrol and tyres were rationed, making it difficult for her father to get to the factory where he worked.

There were a couple of gas stations in Shamrock and after fuelling, we continued, vowing not to let the tank go below half full in future, if at all possible. The land was now quite sparse, arid and scrubby, a gradual change to the desert that was to come, but the roads were the same: straight, smooth, occasionally broken. The sun shone. Lunch was at a small supermarket in a small town. We sat outside on a bench eating turkey sandwiches bought inside, watching rednecks arrive in enormous pick-ups to buy ice. This was grass roots America, insular, consumer driven. The night was spent at the Holiday Inn, Amarillo.

Cadillac Ranch appeared the following morning, almost out of nowhere. Just the day before, back in Oklahoma, Andy had introduced me to the idea of the Tweaker – a person who uses stimulants, a drug user. I had no idea but, according to Andy (a much younger and, therefore, in touch person) they were all over the place. Look, he said, at some of the people who serve at gas stations or supermarket checkouts, if they appear startled when you speak, they're Tweakers. Today, I think we became tweaker-like, although not through drug use, we were just surprised by the sight of a row of Cadillacs half buried, nose into the ground. But there they were these old, graffiti covered cars about 50-odd metres from the road, in a nondescript field of crops.

We stopped, walked in and sprayed some paint on top of the psychedelic mix of colours already caked on the bodies and axles of these dinosaurs (after being handed a couple of rattle-cans by some people who had arrived before us). I still don't know if there was any significance to Cadillac Ranch, or even if there had to be, I suppose. Bruce Springsteen's song of the same name was a metaphor for death and decline, apparently, so maybe, with their front ends nose diving into the earth, these old cars symbolised the decline of the old America, the one of big cars, big trucks and big, heavy industry: ACME America (where, America Companies Make Everything). Whatever it was, Cadillac Ranch was an interesting stop and another photo opportunity – a chance to capture something of what we expected along the route. For me, it was something I would later paint in a sketch book.

Sketching was something I did all along the Mother Road; simple pen illustrations in a plain note book that could, sometime later, be used to create colour sketches or even, in a few cases, more detailed, larger works. I penned all I saw on the road – the vast variety of an ever changing country. People, trucks, cars and bikes; old towns, old garages and old motels, not knowing exactly where they were or what they were called. Looking at the map now, I can see names like: Panhandle, Canadian, Wildorado and Groom.

By the time we'd reached Texas the 'villes' of the east had largely gone, replaced by names that made me think of the frontiersmen who had travelled west across this country long before The Mother Road found its way onto the map and into American history. There were counties called Carson, Oldman and Deaf Smith... and massive stockyards on either side of the road, where literally thousands of cattle awaited the inevitable.

By mid morning we arrived in Midpoint, visiting the shop to be told of how the town had featured in the animated film Cars, and leaving just as another motorcycle convoy arrived. Among claims to fame in the film industry and to The Mother Road, historic vehicles and signs telling us we had travelled half way to Los Angeles, no one mentioned that the town's real name was Adrian. Soon, we'd forgotten Texas, its cattle and lack of fuel stations, and crossed into New Mexico.

The Mother Road. Part 3, Oklahoma

Our third night was spent in Tulsa, Oklahoma, a State entered sometime in the afternoon; unknowingly, from what I remember. The route was, until the last couple of hours, still on frontage roads, with the occasional excursion away from running beside the interstate and into some local town or community. Towards the end of the day we were on fast, smooth roads, where the speed limit changed regularly: fast road, 65mph; 55mph near junctions: 35mph through towns. Tulsa was the first inner city hotel since Chicago and it really was great to be within easy reach of a selection of places to eat. After parking the Harley in the hotel's multi-storey car park, and after a shower, we walked out to a nice bar a few blocks away. It was a bit like a Wetherspoons. A Greyhound bus depot, often positioned 'down town', I recalled from travels in the distant past, confirmed this memory by displaying a huge advertising sign that said: 'Arse in a Sling, Give Us a Ring' followed by the details of a solicitor.

We left Tulsa the following morning, stopping at some roadside historic railway exhibits on the way and photographing a couple of old engines. A bit of Route 66 stuff seemed to be part of the display,  reassuring us that we were on the right road, as it continued out of town and once again ran close to interstate 44. 

We were soon in big country where, by the look of it, you could build anything you wanted anywhere you liked. Isolated buildings appeared out of nowhere and disappeared just as quickly with no apparent connection to the land or locality. Some were pretty ugly, some run down and some run down but simply beautiful. These were the abandoned motels that time and just about everything else - apart from travellers on the Mother road – had forgot. Rows of coloured doors, some dislodged, some still upright but all with paint now flaking stood amongst the crumbling, once whitewashed walls of these old buildings. Only a few decades ago they would have stood proud, gleaming with tall roadside signs shining brightly though the night.

There were a number of 65 mph roads on the stretch out of Tulsa, not interstate but fast single track highways. Enormous modern churches kept appearing. More like massive single storey halls, they stood set back from the road in the flat sprawling landscape far away from any communities that we could see. But like everywhere here, there was plenty of space for parking. I'm not sure we'd seen anybody walking anywhere other than to or from a car since leaving Chicago, not even in Tulsa. From the plains to greenery to church country, our progress continued at a pace.

I noticed a couple of single headlights and white fairings following us as we rode into yet another town and immediately slowed, just in case they were police bikes.  Soon we were stopped opposite the Rock Cafe (of Cars fame) with the two bikes behind us. As it turned out they weren't motorcycles as such but scooters, and the riders weren't cops either, but a husband and wife team out for a Sunday run. We chatted for a while before Andy came running over from the cafe.

Andy, a Scot now living in Australia, holidaying on Route 66 in America, we'd last seen when we set out from EagleRider in Chicago. Andy had ridden with us on that first day and seemed pretty keen to ride with us now. He was a really nice bloke and we were happy for his company and an extra pair of eyes on the navigation. As the days passed I came to look forward to a bit of male banter and chat with Andy and I know Sue liked him. Often, conversations from beneath crash helmets would occur between them, as he pulled up next to us at some tricky navigation spot we'd stopped at. It was great: I couldn't make out all the detail on the satnav maps, not without my reading specs on, so I sat back and awaited a decision. I enjoyed the luxury of simply riding, looking and savouring the journey, the way I wanted to. To me, it was about the traditional American motorcycle and watching historic America roll by. In the sun. With the difficult details taken care of by Sue and Andy, I was in heaven.

From the Rock Cafe we continued a few miles and stopped at Pops, a cafe denoted by an enormous pop bottle out front; a contemporary looking sign, unusual for The Mother Road. There were many bikes: Triumphs, Harleys, Indians, Harleys, a 70s Honda four, and Harleys. We parked our Harleys and went inside. I went to the loo and, not noticing the queue, went straight to a urinal. When I'd finished and washed my hands, I saw the waiting line. I was mortified and made a hasty retreat, noting that there was at least one Brit amongst them. I could see it in his eyes. While all the others said, 'arsehole', his said, 'prat'.

There was something striking about riding in the US: drivers are far more laid back than those in England. The roads are generally far less congested than ours and, I suppose, that makes for better driving. Cars would come up from behind on the frontage road, gaining on us, then sit at a respectable distance until they could overtake. They did this regardless of our speed, which could be slower than the road's limit to enable a bit of sightseeing. Sometimes a truck would come along but I would always speed up or pull over so not to inconvenience the driver. We passed through towns with four-lane high streets that felt 100 feet wide. This was, “Ya'all come back, now” country and the people were pleasant, helpful and friendly. We stopped, filled (gassed) up and used the toilet (potty) and drank coffee (coffee).

The Harley continued to grow on me. Partly, I think, because the engine, that big capacity twin, thumped along a bit like my BMW RT1150. The style, though, was totally different and for long distance touring I'm not sure which I'd prefer. In Europe the Harley would be more a cruiser but in the US, it's considered a tourer and for two-up riding on these straight roads it was wonderful, the passenger even gets an arm chair. If it were my bike, I'd have higher bars and a seat set back a bit to accommodate my taller than average frame, and some highway pegs to let me stretch out. Not that the Electraglide was uncomfortable, far from it, just not ideal, that's all. I had to drop a leg off the inside footplate during tight turns, to allow the bars to move over an obstructing knee. Pretty, slow speed manoeuvring was never going to be possible on such a top heavy bike, two-up, so I didn't worry too much.

We stayed in Clinton for our second night in Oklahoma, in another chain hotel that again resembled something that might have been delivered flat packed, along with a breakfast neatly slotted into a plastic bag. There were other couples there riding EagleRider bikes, doing The Mother Road West to East. One were New Zealanders (ex pats from Kent) riding a Road King, another riding a BMW RT1200. We had a chat and it became obvious the BM pair were not entirely enjoying the journey – difficult navigation and getting lost had, apparently, marred their trip. I thought of our system, satnav, Sue and Andy and felt relieved but sympathetic. Someone did tell us that Route 66 signs were sometimes stolen as souvenirs and, to be honest, the satnav wasn't always without issue. If I set it to 'no interstate', it would understandably want to take us miles out of our way when Route 66 used one of these major routes. When we got further West and roads became sparse, on one occasion it suggested a 450 mile detour to avoid a few miles of interstate. Sometimes, but only briefly, the interstate is The Mother Road.

Still at the hotel, I spoke to an American couple who had been to an archery event. Hunting, it was soon revealed, in the humane manner that only a bow and arrow, or crossbow, can give. I was informed that an animal feels a burning sensation then dies peacefully when struck by an arrow head, as opposed to the suffering of being blown apart by a bullet. Soon after, we entered the Lone Star State.

Revolution

It's 1973 and I'm riding my 60s Bonneville home from work. The engine's faltering and I feel a weekend in the garage coming on, a common occurrence but I can't afford anything better. A mate's got HP on a new Trident but he doesn't put up with it for long. Soon he's on a Z900, a true superbike, the like of which we've never seen despite being gob-smacked a few years back by Honda's revolutionary CB750 . Then I'm riding a Yamaha and then it's 1979 and I'm on a Z1000ST with a bullet proof engine (and believe me, at 23 I know how to fire bullets at an engine). The bike does every journey faultlessly, all year round. It carries me to work each day, blasts the weekends and come summer, travels with me on holiday.

Roll on nearly 40 years and I'm looking at my new Bonneville nestling in the garage next to my other bikes, the one I use for touring and the winter hack. The Triumph's a wonderful bike and a truly authentic retro – a combination of classic looks and modern performance (which I now sadly think of in terms of ease of use). I read MSL and see a Kawasaki Z900RS for the first time, a fantastic looking machine that like the Triumph has been cleverly targetted. The Kawasaki is not an attempt at faithful visual reproduction, unlike the Triumph, but in their own words, a homage to the old Z. A tribute, maybe, to the spirit that created it. And, to me, that's what makes the RS special - it's a very capable, contemporary machine that dares to be a bit different, very much like the Z1 all those years ago.

The irony is that if the RS is to be viewed as a retro classic, then it's been out retro'd by the very machines the original kicked into touch, as the new T120 Bonneville is surely the best on the market. But I hope the Z1's innovative spirit lives on and that if I could roll on another 40 years, I'd see the same ethos creating wonderful electric bikes that do everything we want of them: carry us to work, blast the weekends and once a year, travel with us on holiday. Maybe there'll be a lithium homage to the Electraglide.