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Strumpet in Red
by Gary Charpentier |
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We
met over the Internet, as so many do these days. I had been
dreaming of someone like her for years now, and her current
man seemed to have lost interest. She craved adventure and
excitement, but had been kept on a short leash for far too
long. I arranged it so we could meet and go away for the
weekend, just the two of us, nobody the wiser. We went everywhere
together, trying to find a place where we could romp and
play, away from prying eyes. Wherever we went, folks turned
and stared. When she spoke, they stopped talking and just
listened. Part of me wanted her all to myself, but my ego
was buoyed by all the attention. Of course people
talk, and I knew it was only a matter of time before my wife
found out. She would be outraged! Not terribly long ago I
had promised her: no more. You see, this wasn't the first
time I had been lured by such a temptress. That first time
almost killed me and the second time I ended up in jail.
They say it's three strikes and you're out, but I don't know
how to live any other way. Damn the consequences, we would
make this weekend last forever! Physically, we
were a perfect fit and she responded to my every move. We
danced together on deserted country roads and I laughed out
loud under a brilliant autumn sky. Saturday passed in a
flash, and all too soon it was Sunday. Good people
everywhere were going to church, while we were sinning our
hearts out. Strange, but I felt neither guilt nor shame.
This was what I was born to do, it was my destiny. I wracked
my brain to find a way that we could be together always, but
it was for naught. She needed a man with money, you see, and
I am but a poor motojournalist. It could never work, we both
knew it, and that lent a rather tragic tone to our last few
hours together. Monday dawned with
exquisite cruelty. Another warm and sunny day, just right
for frolicking with my vibrant partner. Unfortunately, I had
to bring her back home. I dropped her off, said goodbye, and
got on my bike. After one last, lingering look into her
bright cat's eyes, I rode away...and I never saw her again.
I kept tabs on
her, of course. Obsession is a difficult thing to shake.
Merely two weeks after our brief but torrid affair, I heard
she had moved out to San Diego to be with some wealthy
Californian. I hope he treats her well, and doesn't keep her
as a simple ornament, or a trophy. He'll never appreciate
her the way I did, I'm sure. Okay, enough
Harlequin romance crap already! I have always had
a "thing" for the Hinckley Daytona. The looks of this
motorcycle are my absolute favorite of all the newer
sportbikes. More rounded than the 748/996 Ducatis, every
line flows organically into the next. The only discordant
element was always the clunky stock exhaust, which this bike
didn't have... The Triumph Racing
Exhaust installed on this Daytona converts it from an
interesting piece of dynamic sculpture into an intense,
multimedia feast for the senses. The asynchronous resonance
of the Hinckley triple, unleashed through this very musical
instrument, delivers an exotic sound normally associated
with vintage formula one cars. I originally thought of a
Ferrari, but I am trying to keep the plot British. Racing
Jaguar V-12 anyone? While bimbling
through town I kept her in first gear, revving slowly up and
down the range. I suspect we caused a few minor cases of
whiplash riding that way... you could pick the gearheads out
of the crowd by the acute angle of their heads opposed to
their bodies as they turned too-quickly to look. I'm sure
they expected to see something on four wheels, costing six
digits. Imagine their surprise at seeing just another
ubiquitous red "crotch rocket". I must say I don't
like what they've done with the latest version of this bike.
The 2002 model sports spare, angular bodywork with enormous
headlamps ala Honda 929 that simply make the bike look too
generic. The twin sided swingarm makes sense from a
performance standpoint, but to be honest, I never
encountered a situation on the roads where the single-sider
was a detriment. The power delivery
is perfect for the street. Just the right balance between
low-end torque and top-end rush. Where my old Ducati would
charge hard out of corners, it always ran out of breath up
around 8K rpm. The Daytona continues to build power up to
it's 10.5K redline, and since it belonged to a private party
instead of a dealership, I didn't go beyond that. Still, we
spent much of the weekend in third and fourth gear, at
speeds exceeding the ton, and I never felt I was pushing the
bike's limits at all. The only thing
that didn't agree with me right away were the ergonomics.
I've been away from hard-core sportbikes and roadracing for
a couple years, and have gotten just a tad out-of-shape.
Straining the zipper in my old racing leathers, I resemble
something the Germans might call "Motoschnitzel". The
burgeoning bulge of my midsection meets the upper curve of
the fuel tank at exactly the wrong point. This is not a bike
for the sofa-spud, but by Sunday I was already starting to
get comfortable. The white-faced
clocks are gorgeous. I've always preferred them to black.
But their low position, buried between tank and fairing,
required me to dip my head and look down from the road in
order to glean any information from them. A small matter
normally, it became a bit more urgent when trying to adjust
my speed in response to an oncoming state trooper.
I liked the
handling, although it was a bit heavier than I am used to. I
leaned it far enough to use all the tread on both sides of
the rear tire without ever having to drag a knee, which was
a good thing because I wasn't wearing sliders. The chassis
felt well-planted and secure, and I was always aware of what
the front end was doing. Steering was plenty quick enough
for the street, without being twitchy. No need for a
steering damper here. The Bridgestone BT56 tires never felt
like they were losing their grip, though I know I spun the
rear a bit on some corner exits. This is a supremely
competent motorcycle, no muss, no fuss. How very
British... From a
sport-touring point of view, this isn't the ideal tool for
the job. Triumph have the ST and RS for that slot. You can't
fit any kind of luggage readily to the rear, and the fuel
tank cover is plastic, hence magnetic tank bags are left at
home. A strap on tankbag and maybe some more relaxed Heli
bars would do wonders in this arena. I wanted to buy
this bike. The asking price was astoundingly reasonable, but
I simply didn't have the cash. It really did go to some
fellow out in San Diego, who bought it off the Internet, and
I'm sure he is going to enjoy it immensely out there. I've
got to face another long Minnesota winter now, fettling my
poor old vintage Japanese bikes. But when it gets cold and
dark, and it seems the season will never end, I will close
my eyes and dream of my fling with the Strumpet in Red.
M.M.M.
From
the moment I picked her up, I marveled at her beauty.
Voluptuous curves cloaked in stunning red, she was even more
gorgeous than her picture. Then I heard her voice... and the
spell took hold.
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