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Used Motorcycle Guide: Issue 126 : Sample Only : To read the FULL Article Order on-line

Small but perfectly formed
Fred Clayson finds that good things really do come in small packages thanks to a CBR400

Ah, the naivety of old age: the middle-twilight years, when a blush on a woman indicates not modesty, but hot flushes; when shopkeepers call you ‘sir’ and offer you a seat while you wait; when motor cycles of 400cc are pretty staid affairs...
Hang about a mo’; ‘staid’ is a word I would use to describe my Guzzi Le Mans - a workmanship-like vehicle that transports one from A to B, via X (it doesn’t handle well enough to go directly between A and B) and leaves you with a nervous tic on your cheek - your butt cheek, that is. Guzzis were never known for their vibrationless mode of travel. Ok, the Mk V is bloody tall, too; so tall that I had to hire a fork lift every time I came to a stand - not that that happened much, as I chose my journeys with the utmost care, and travelled routes that I knew required no stopping. Hence (Einstein’s theory of relativity between feet and solid ground comes into play here) no worries that I would have to nervously shift into neutral (hah! tried to find true neutral on a Guzzi lately?) and gently plonk my plates of meat on the tarmac. Plan A, you might say.

Plan A was scuppered the day I found myself staring at a distant car sticker. Intrigued, I wound open the throttle on the Guzzi (yes it was stiff; and yes, it was blooming painful on the wrist. No wonder my dad warned me about that when I was young) and caught up with aforementioned car. The sticker actually said ‘Keep Your Distance’ but as I shuddered to a halt behind the car - stopped now, without warning, as I followed too closely - I had no choice but to plant my foot on the ground; I say ‘foot’ because trying both of ‘em was pushing it a bit at that height. Foot edged toward Tarmac. A bloody long way down, I might add. Ok, it was the wind. Beans always have that effect on me. Whatever, the bike became unstable, my one foot on the ground wasn’t enough, and voila, Guzzi meets tarmac, how do you do.
I needed a smaller bike. The Honda VFR400R looked good. Reports said it was good. The price (G reg) was good. The seat height was good. The man who owned it was Mr Good. Good. The sheer complexity (read: expensive) of the engine fazed me (so, get a Fazer if you’re fazed, I hear you cry) and I left the VFR sitting in his driveway. Another 400 called to me from afar - well, from the local dealers just 2 kilometres away.
She was beautiful. So bloody beautiful that I fell in love instantly. Don’t tell the wife. Red, white and blue; Jubilee colours. 11k kilometres on the clock (imported model, see. Aren’t they ALL imported, I wonder?) and freshly MOT’d and taxed. Unmarked, unspoiled, glorious, wonderful. Honda. CBR400R Aero. NC23. D reg. Old D reg. Started her up. Sounded sweet at 15k rpm. Sounded even better at £1400. Without hesitation, I collared her; begged the dealer to let me have it (ahem) and as it was his own personal machine, he took some persuading. I picketed his shop and implored him on a nightly basis (except Wednesday, which was my day off) until he sighed and let me loose with my new acquisition. Bum on seat, nose behind the sexy little windscreen, throttle wide open, I headed home. Things in the distance that I was used to seeing three minutes later, suddenly hoved into focus within seconds, and even the 30mph speed limit sign (no, officer, I will not admit to this) passed at a phenomenal rate of knots. I dared to look at the speedo and saw 100 writ large. I gulped and reluctantly closed the throttle and told myself how old I was.
She’s beautiful. I mean, really really beautiful. From her quality, which oozes Honda, to her handling, which simply encourages speed and confidence, she’s razor sharp, on the cutting edge of everything I thought was out of date in 1987.

One thing I learned very quickly: she doesn’t like going slow. But the bonus of that is she sounds so bloody wonderful when nailed on the throttle, that you don’t want to go slow. Changing down gears is the name of the game, to keep that glorious pipe on tune, and it’s a juvenile pleasure to whisk past cars, just to let them have the privilege of a sound that I can only relate to Hailwood’s 250-6, back in the Sixties. If you’ve heard Hailwood, you’ve heard the CBR.
People tell me she has no poke in the mid range, but I don’t find that; indeed, she’s easily handled in top gear at just 30mph, if tootling through town is your thing. Change down a peg or two and she’s all fired up with just the horizon to get in the way.

Either way, she’s a joy to ride - and a joy to ride fast. Cornering is tram-like; line her up, chuck her in, and she’ll go round on rails, gliding even, despite the thinnish Bridgestones (original still) that will squeal in protest if you try just a little too hard. Brakes: twin discs up front, single disc at rear. More than enough, as I found out; following white-van-man, who thought indicators were something motorcyclists had ESP for, I slammed on the brakes as he skidded to a halt, and the Honda’s wheels locked up. Dismayed, as it happened to be wet at the time, I wondered if the tarmac here was any softer than the tarmac anywhere else. Mainly, my thoughts were directed towards how utterly stupid a 50 year old guy was going to look in front of all the goggling schoolkids who, having heard the approaching Honda, were now swivelling jealous eyes my way.

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