Motorcycle Explorer September 2016 Issue 13 | Page 23

O
ne of the reasons I got so heavily into
motorcycles – rather than pony trekking or crazy
golf – was the aspect of ‘control’. Motorcycles
require full control, 100 per cent of the time; total
authority on the part of the rider. And I am a control
freak. I get as much pleasure from organising
sockets or alphabetising my bookshelves as other
people take from holidays in the Algarve, or heroin.
of ‘personal accountability’ and gradually erodes the
bedrock of natural harmony, once part and parcel of
the riding experience.
Many will argue that safety should be the overriding
concern of any and every issue affecting our lives:
but not me; I rail against the notion; not because I
am some goon full of machismo and bravado, but
because ‘safety’ has become a catch-all synonym for
the annexing of control, usually at my expense.
It has been with great sorrow and deep trepidation
Motorcycles are not safe machines; if you leave one
then that I have witnessed the evolution of the
alone to its own devises for more than a second or
driverless car, from lunatic gimmick to odd
so it will fall over: that is not a good premise for a
possibility, to very real prospect on our roads. A
safe vehicle. I didn’t get into motorcycling for the
symbol of control maybe; but not yours or mine;
safety; I enjoy the visceral riding experiencing, ‘that
control instead by a third party who has your ‘best
near death thing’ as Rick Broadbent so accurately
interests’ at heart: your safety, your comfort and of
course, your money. It’s the sort of control that gets described it; interrupt that delicate interaction with
into the brain of a certain type of person, of whom I electronic interference, compromise it with traction
control or wheelie control or ABS, and you might as
am very much one, and drives them into a sort of
well add stabilisers. The fundamentals have gone;
frenzied dance of despair; arms lashing furiously
whenever the topic arises, scratching and tearing at destroyed by Johnny Speed who wants to brag about
bhp but can’t get around a greasy hairpin without
the flesh, which itches like nascent plague boils.
high-siding into next year. I have little sympathy for
At least it did, until I thought long and hard about
that type of bullshit; my ‘get well’ card would
the whole concept after a close encounter with a
Range Rover that made a dramatic right turn without contain a marketing brochure for a 15 year-old GSX-
R.
indicating at the exact moment I started my
carefully planned, very high speed, overtake. As I
And the buck doesn’t stop with sports bikes; I will
scraped the paint off my handlebar I was left
always take more pleasure in manhandling a little
questioning the wisdom of any human being ever
250cc Gas Gas through a muddy ditch than I could
again being allowed behind the wheel of a
ever find in switching on the traction control and
motorised vehicle.
letting the electronics on a KTM 1190 ride me out of
trouble. What’s the point in reducing yourself to a
When you are so close to a big impact that you can
pillion?
see the look of fear in your own eyes reflected in
the wing mirror of the vehicle you are about to hit, it
is perhaps time to reconsider certain long-held
convictions. And that is why I am now a devout
follower of the new religion of the driverless car. It
strikes me that removing these inconsiderate
bastards from the equation is a very wise move that
will almost certainly make the roads a safer place
for the enthusiastic motorcyclist.
My concern, though, is that just as the car driver has
been reduced from a heel-and-toeing, double D
clutching road warrior to a sort of braindead
passenger monkey, so the motorcyclist is destined
for the same horrible fate.
So many modern bikes come equipped as standard
with intrusive electronics that impinge drastically
on the skill-set necessary to safely ride them at
speed. Most of these gimmicks have entered the
mainstream on the back of that most sinister of
concerns - ‘safety’, which laps against the shoreline
Riding a motorcycle should be a symbiotic process,
the subtle input of the rider rewarded with clear
feedback from the tyres and suspension. Any
monkey can twist a grip, but it takes a certain kind of
ape to keep both wheels firmly planted to the road
while your knee scrapes along the Tarmac.
My Kawasaki is 14 years old and has 116bhp, give or
take; it is good for 160mph and the electronics stop
at the alternator. And when I tip it into my favourite
Shell-gripped switchback, I do so knowing that
nothing but my own abilities will see the pair of us
safely out the other side. The same was true when I
used to ride my much missed KTM LC4 over the
rubble and mud of any dirt track I happened to
chance across. Control equates to safety; but safety
should never impinge on control. It’s a slippery
slope, and one I would rather negotiate without the
aid of electronic assistance.