1000 MILES, NONSTOP
1000 miles, two up, ricochetting between Britain and Ireland’s five capintadl cities on Kawasaki’s supercharged H2 SX SE+. Non-stop…
London, Cardiff, Edinburgh, Dublin and Belfast. In 33 hours. On Kawasaki H2 SX.
ITAP OUT A text message. ‘Fancy an adventure? Bike have asked me to do a mad trip on a Kawasaki H2 SX, the supercharged sport tourer. Peterborough, London, Cardiff, Holyhead, Dublin, Belfast, Stranraer, Edinburgh, Peterborough. Five capitals, non-stop, sharing riding. Sleeping on ferries only… fancy being co-rider?’ My phone screen is only black for a couple of minutes before it wakes up. ‘Yes!’
When it came to potential co-pilots I had a very short shortlist of just one candidate: Geoff Cain. If he was unwilling to share a Kawasaki SX 1000 for 30-plus hours I was completely and utterly stuck. As you can see he didn’t take much convincing to come along for the ride.
In the days before departure I’m antsy about the trip. I’ve ridden long distances in a day, but there’s always been a bed at the end of the day. Not this time. And this bike…
And they are off
Geoff and I are more nervous-giggly than two 47-year-olds should be at 7am on a Sunday. The bridge photo takes less time than I expect so we are already on the road 30 minutes ahead of spreadsheet schedule. I’ve ridden the Kawasaki from home, 36 miles, to the meeting point and feel that’s quite enough familiarisation with £21,599 and 200 horsepower of kandy-kolored korporate flagship.
I reckon letting him ride down the A1 would be a gentle way of coming to grips with the world’s fastest production bike. I mean, I knew he could ride a bike, and I’ve already learned that the H2 SX, despite its otherworldly aura, can be remarkably girl next door when you want it to be.
‘It’s so easy to ride and I’m very impressed with the linear power delivery,’ says Geoff, ‘but I don’t want to make you fly off the back. It’s taking me a while to get used to the clutchless, power-on shifting, but when I get it right, it’s so smooth.’ The pillion is not as cramped as I feared. We expected the SX would come with hard panniers, but it didn’t so I have an old Kriega R30 on my back with a road atlas, notebook, woolie hat, Geoff’s spare gloves, four zipties, gaffa tape and a 1.5-litre petrol can, full. It doesn’t feel much for a 1000-mile journey.
80.7 miles, 09:11
We rendezvous at 7am because we have to board a ferry from Holyhead in 12 hours. I’ve made a spreadsheet of the cities, mileages and times between each capital. A spreadsheet FFS. The ferry crossings are the key. Miss the Holyhead to Dublin boat and the next one is six hours later. Once we are on that ferry out of Wales the rest of the trip should fall into place.
We pull off the North Circular towards the new Wembley Stadium. It’s the day of the Checkatrade Trophy Final. The first of 85,000 Portsmouth and Sunderland fans are already milling around. It’s 9am, they’re drinking, cold hands on cold cans, and heading into betting shops prior to the 14.30 kick-off. We ride as close to the stadium as we can, attach my phone to a little tripod, set the timer and take a few snaps. I’ve decided one of each capitals’ major stadiums is good enough proof of visitation, to ourselves as much as anyone. That we ticked the box.
I prod a Cardiff postcode in the Garmin I’ve ziptied to the top yoke and Geoff rides again. Through suburban London, past Royal Park, to the M4.
200 miles: 11.25
20% done and it feels like we’ve hardly started. We’re two petrol (and Geoff pee stops) in. On the M4, in the fast lane, but not going that fast, a bike coming the other way gesticulates wildly. I try to communicate with Geoff. He doesn’t fully get the gist, but slows down anyway. I’ve failed to borrow helmet intercoms. We never discover what the other rider was trying to warn us of. Severn Bridge, then off the M4 into Cardiff. We pull into a petrol station and I threaten Geoff with a coffee. He just wants the toilet. Again. We climb back on, without a latte, me riding now, and find the Principality Stadium. Another selfie. I haven’t taken my helmet off since Peterborough and we’re back on the SX to Holyhead and that ferry.
262 miles 13:06
I’m pretty good at not needing to eat or drink when I’d riding a long way, but I don’t know how Geoff is. I tell him to keep an eye out for a good-looking café. He doesn’t seem that fussed. We’re off the motorway now, me riding. I can feel when Geoff is leg dangling, but it doesn’t affect the bike.
It’s about now that I begin to think the H2 SX SE+ is nearly pointless in Britain 2019 AD. It’s capable, hell it’s capable, but, I fear, pointless. It’s a pleasant spring Sunday morning. We’re riding up through Wales on the first fun road of the whole trip and we’ve eyeballed three speed camera vans. This is on top of the dozens of miles of roads we’ve already covered under the unblinking stare of average speed cyclops, and I’m not sure how many GATSOS we’ve tiptoed past, but plenty. This rocketship is tethered to terra firma by my licence. The inability to flex this muscle, to get the boost maxing, is a constant nagging brain cloud. I did let the bike off the lead before meeting Geoff. It’s astonishing. A great, whooshing thud of hairy, unreconstituted man-tackle on the desk of authority. As long as no one is looking. But I can’t shake the feeling that all it takes is one ‘concerned’ citizen with a dashcam to film the green flash accelerate from canter to can’t see ya and there would, could, be awkward questions to answer, dry-mouthed denials to croak. Not only that, I’ve taken the trouble to read the Kawasaki owners manual and learned the damned thing snoops on itself thanks to an onboard snitch box that logs,
‘Call me a Luddite, but I don’t want the star witness for the prosecution living in my garage, however good the PCP deals are’
among other things, peak speed. Call me a Luddite, but I don’t want the star witness for the prosecution living in my garage, however good the PCP deals are.
Some of you, I hope, will be thinking: ‘well, just don’t break the law and you won’t have to take a blunt axe to the blackbox, ECU and anything else you don’t recognise that has wires hanging out of it if you hear a heavy knock at the front door.’ And to you I will say: ‘if we’re obeying the law of the land, please tell me the point of this supercharged hyperbike, because I can’t think of one.’
This inner discourse keeps my brain engaged until the crossroads in Rhayader where Geoff points to a convenient parking spot.
307 miles, 14:00
‘I’ve been trail riding round here and there’s a good place to eat.’ We park right outside, next to two other bikes. The sun is shining now. We haven’t seen a spot of rain. I take off my helmet for the first time since leaving and walk into Ty Morgans to order. It’s the first food or drink stop since home, we’re 307 miles into the journey and it is exactly
2pm. We’ve both been riding so gently, for fear of trebucheting our fellow co-pilot off the pillion perch, that neither of us is really tired. We’re a full 90 minutes ahead of spreadsheet schedule. As I wait for tea, toast and poached eggs I text Simon, a friend who lives near the ferry terminal in Anglesey. I haven’t seen him for years. Geoff knows him too. We should have time to visit. I feel fine getting back on the bike. Nothing’s aching. We’re parked in the middle of a crossroads. I can’t work out which way the satnav arrow is pointing me, out of the two possible directions, and choose the wrong one. For much of the next two hours we’re on a mix of sketchy single track roads, sometimes with grass growing in the middle, and deserted two-lanes. The arrival time, in the extreme northwest of Wales is still ok, so we plough on, trusting Garmin, rather than stopping to look at the map in the backpack. The plus side is the weather is good and the scenery astonishing. I’ve been up and down Wales a few times, but never on these roads. Geoff’s laissez-faire attitude keeps me calm. We’re moving forward, we’re not going to miss the ferry, we have nowhere else to be. I experience a calm I rarely ever feel, in a life characterised by always feeling the need to be somewhere for the minimum amount of time, and packing the maximum into every day. Even on the 12-day or longer trips I’ve done, and I’ve done a few, I have usually rushed the miles away in the hope of finding the perfect bar, swimming pool or to meet a friend at the end of the day. Is what I’m experiencing, sort of lost in Cymru, living in the moment? Who’d have thought 33 hours on a supercharged dude canoe would bring that enlightenment? I should try it more often.
My lack of understanding of the bike doesn’t go as far as denying it is a class act. The active suspension, that I don’t feel the need to fiddle with, is excellent. Still, I’m not carving corners any more confidently than I would on a bike half its ticket price. It is dynamically faultless, two bikes, perhaps three, in one, but we’re only using one. Am I missing the point here? I’m not sure, I still haven’t worked out what its point is.
436 miles, 19.36
After an hour pitstop and veggie curry at Simon’s, we ride 15 minutes to the port and roll onto the ferry just five minutes later. We find seats at the far end of the bar seating area.
‘Don’t drink coffee,’ Geoff says, sagely. We need sleep, not hot caffeine. It’s quiet for ten minutes
‘I’m not anti-fast bike, but really what is this motorcycle saying about its owner?’
before the Belfast branch of the Manchester
United Supporters Club arrive en masse and bray at each other, at car alarm decibels, for the duration of the crossing. I push the ear plugs so far into my canals I suspect they’re touching in the middle. I get a couple of hours snooze. With land visible Geoff and I blink at each other and agree it’s time for coffee now, just as everywhere on board shuts for docking. Sunday night is becoming Monday morning as we roll off the ferry into a well-lit Dublin. We ride to the Aviva Stadium, Lansdowne Road. It’s 00.08 when we take a selfie, set the satnav for Belfast, roll back around the harbour and suffer the first glitch. Dublin’s orbital, the M50, is closed. We have three hours to ride to Belfast, navigate the city, take the photo, then cover 25 miles to Larne ferry terminal. Is that enough time? We crawl through Dublin’s suburbs, heading north and eventually join the motorway. Now it’s cold, and very dark. We’ve become that bike you sometimes see, when you’re in a car or van at an ungodly hour, and think: ‘what the hell are they doing out at this time?’ The ice warning light comes on the dash and the cornering lights have begun to operate. They’re in the leading edge of the fairing. They flick on when the bike leans to a certain angle in an effort to light the curve. ‘They are the most pointless thing ever fitted to a motorcycle,’ I tell Geoff, ‘Up there with in-board disc brakes.’ He seems sceptical about my dismissal. We get into Northern Ireland and the A1 motorway is closed. We’re sent on a diversion through the back end of Banbridge. We’re on single track roads again. There is next to nothing on the road at 1.45am in rural County Down. We pull to the side of a road for Geoff to wee. We’ve been stopped 30 seconds when a BMW RT rides past. Weird.
An hour later, Belfast is not that much busier. Windsor Park stadium is in a very loyalist area of the city: AK47S and murals on terrace ends. Riding around at 02:38 on 20 grands’ worth of motorcycle in search of selfies seems foolish. We park up, whisper and skedaddle. This city’s reputation, however out of date, precedes it.
580 miles, 03:17
We have time to grab petrol at the docks and only have to wait ten minutes before we’re waved onto the ferry to Cairnryan, Stranraer. It’s less than 3.5 hours since we rolled off the last ship. Thanks Ireland, it’s been… brief. I snaffle biscuits, crisps and hot tea. It’s the first drink or food since Simon’s curry eight hours ago. It doesn’t seem that long. I grab another two hours sleep with my Dainese coat over my head. Like everything on this journey, decisions are made easily. Geoff wants to ride off the P&O’S European Highlander into a chilly, dark Scotland. We’ve agreed we’ll ride A-roads to Edinburgh rather than motorways. It’s 6am, 22.5 hours since we left the bridge in Cambridgeshire, longer since we left home. Filling up with fuel in Larne is a wise move. We don’t see a fuel station open till Ayr, 52 miles into Scotland. We’d have been on fumes, even with the spare 1.5 litres we’re carrying. ‘You were right about the cornering lights. Rubbish,’ laughs Geoff, ‘but the bike is so manoeuvrable at all speeds, even two-up.’ Geoff never gets to ride the H2 SX without me on the back, but he’s right. This bike has all that headline-grabbing potential, but it’s as user-friendly as a twist and go, as long as you don’t want to know what every button on the switchgear does. We both experiment with cruise control, something I’ve dreamt of having on a bike for decades, but I’m surprised how quickly I give up with it.
‘Is what I’m experiencing, living in the moment? Who’d have thought 33 hours on a supercharged dude canoe would bring that enlightenment?’
The A70, that stretches from Ayr to Edinburgh, is gorgeous. As is the sunrise. I’m living in the moment again. We stop in a lambflecked landscape for photos. Still no rain, but despite being a regular yoga class attendee Geoff is aching. We’re both craving a Gold Wing. We wouldn’t have been any slower, point-to-point, we’d have been more comfortable, we’d have been listening to stimulating music. The H2 is one of the most anachronistic bikes I can imagine. Yes, it has bleeding edge technology, its active suspension is pretty damn impressive, but supercharged motorcycles in 2019? Are there really that many men out there needing to over-compensate? I’m not anti-fast bike, but really what is this motorcycle saying about its owner?
700 miles, 09:18
Geoff is beginning to refer to the day as ‘the hell ride’. I did all of Ireland, he does the 114-mile stretch from Cairnryan to Murrayfield, Edinburgh. There was a Six Nations international the day before and there’s lots of dismantling going on. We ride up to the gate and ask if we can come in for a photo. ‘Why not?’ Geoff asks the security guard. Ok then, you can. We check the tripmeter. It’s exactly 700 miles. That means we’ve averaged just 26.9mph, but we have crossed the Irish Sea twice in that time. Take those crossings out, but leave the other food and selfie stops in, and it’s 37.8mph. Does that sound like a supercharged average?
We’re buzzed by another security guard and put him off the scent by asking where to get breakfast. There’s only one table free in the greasy spoon around the corner. We take our time. We’re on the last leg. I get the map out. We agree on A-roads only to Scotch Corner, then A1. The sun’s out again.
The A68 might just be the original rollercoaster road. It is distinct from every other A-road we’ve been on, a character of its own with
‘I want to pin it in third, quickshift to fourth, fifth, then circle back to collect Geoff no doubt jettisoned, at the first custard pie-in-the-face of acceleration, a few miles back’
whoops that make Geoff yelp on the back. This trip causes me to choose routes I’ve never used before and they’re a joy. Monday morning, not much traffic, I’m operating at a setting called ‘distance covering efficiency’ with the supercharger offering little more than ballast. I want to pin it in third, quickshift to fourth, fifth, then circle back to collect Geoff no doubt jettisoned, at the first custard pie in the face of acceleration, a few miles back. The way the H2 SX gains speed is almost cartoonish and the inability to exploit it whenever I like is irksome.
It’s 12:01 as we cross the border into England. The Kawasaki is returning 46mpg. It doesn’t miss a beat. Euphemistically ‘I’m making time’, but the nuclear reactor feels like it’s dozing beneath us. I would be riding it harder and faster without a pillion, but I’m not sure if I’d still be going now. I’m a lot happier on the back than I ever thought I’d be, and Geoff feels comfier on the front. I cover the whole leg from Edinburgh to Scotch Corner. We stop for another drink and a sausage roll.
1000.3 miles, 16:36
I climb on the back with the end almost in sight. At least relatively speaking. It’s A1 all the way to the end. One tank, 150 miles, feet don’t touch the floor once. Stibbington bridge is ahead. We can see Simon the photographer waiting for us. As Geoff turns off the A1, he stops. ‘Look at the tripmeter.’ It’s 999.9 miles. When we roll into position, the exact same spot from 33 hours previous, it’s moved to 1000.3. We’re still smiling. Laughing. Hell ride? My arse.
So what have I concluded from 33 hours and 1000 miles? Well, the H2 SX SE+ is certainly at the pinnacle of sport touring,so high in fact that it’s hard to breath up there. A technological tour de force and de facto cult bike in the making, just work out where you’re going to actually use it.