THE GOLDEN MOMENT
That first national speed limit sign out of Stratford is like a red rag to a psychotic bull. The SX hunches its shoulders, digs its heels in and charges forward in a maelstrom of turbine-like drive. Fast, sweeping, flowing corners linked together by bursts of straights that all build towards the exhilaration of Fish Hill. The two-lane approach lets you flit past slow-moving traffic with ease, before carving into the first left-hander with gluelike adhesion, the mass of the SX planting it into the tarmac with the long-gait security of a Hayabusa, married to the agility of a recent superbike.
You only need the lightest of touches to arc right before two bigger shoves to tighten right again, flick left and spit out over the top of the hill on a wave of diesel-like torque and a building surge from the supercharger. It feels so good that I go back and do it three more times.