My two-wheeled history

My First Bike Adventure: The Kawasaki Zephyr 550 Saga

Ah, the Kawasaki Zephyr 550 - a machine that wasn't technically mine but felt like it was sent from above to kickstart my biking life. Picture this: it belonged to my uncle, who happened to have a spare bike (the other a slick Fazer) collecting dust in his garage. Generously, he tossed me the keys to the Zephyr with one simple rule—keep it running. No need to dive into the nightmare of loans or finance deals. Just me, the bike, and the open road. A dream come true, right?

Riding the Zephyr was like being in a relationship with a beautiful disaster. The bike had character, sure, but it also had the handling of a stubborn mule in a mudslide. It vibrated, it rattled, and every ride flirted dangerously with disaster. Despite passing its MOTs and getting regular check-ups, anyone with a keen eye could spot the battle scars of age and adventure beneath its chrome charms.

The thrill of potential restoration crossed my mind. I daydreamed about turning it into a showroom dazzler until reality gave me a slap—restoration was way out of my league, and frankly, it wasn’t even my bike to mess with. One wrong move, and I’d be the family outcast! So, maintenance over makeover became my mantra.

The Zephyr didn't just shake up my mechanical skills—it also earned me the nickname "Wagon." Here’s the backstory: a rain-soaked ride to the Isle of Man TT with my dad and his motorhead buddies (Dad, by the way, had to hitch a ride on the back since he didn’t own a bike). While the crew zoomed ahead on their modern rockets like KTM's and Ducatis, I was left wrestling the old Zephyr through a storm.

At one point, they waited for me in a quaint little town, only to catch sight of me awkwardly tailgating a lorry, trying desperately to overtake but looking more like I was part of the cargo. Thus, "Wagon" was born. Despite the merciless weather and the bike’s antique antics, we made it to the TT and back without turning into roadside history.

Two years and countless shaky journeys later, I hung up my helmet as a Zephyr rider and vowed to never go naked (bike-wise) again. For city commutes, sure, the Zephyr would have been a charm, but for the wild, wind-in-your-face escapades? It just didn’t pack the punch.

What I loved: Despite everything, it was a looker with its shiny chrome catching the sun.

What I didn’t love: The constant fear of becoming a street pancake.

That old Zephyr wasn't just a bike; it was my rite of passage. It taught me the ropes, gifted me a quirky nickname, and left me with stories that no shiny new bike ever could.

My First True Love: The FZ6 Fazer Saga

Picture this: the FZ6 Fazer, a steed of steel and spirit, originally championed by none other than my dear old dad. After he upgraded to a beefier BMW F800ST, I seized the opportunity to keep the bike in the family and snapped it up. This wasn’t just any bike—it was a tangible link to my dad's newly minted biking legacy. Plus, I’d saved enough over the years to buy it outright, dodging the dreaded finance trap.

Now, there was a stretch of time between parting ways with my old pal, the Zephyr, and welcoming the Fazer into my life. During those bike-less years, life threw me some curveballs, but everything turned around when I dove headfirst into a new relationship. Together, we discovered a shared passion for the great outdoors, with the Lake District practically becoming our second home.

When I finally got back on two wheels with the Fazer, it was like breathing fresh mountain air. Sure, it was a bit older, but with a few clever upgrades, I breathed new life into it, making it as sleek and modern as possible. Owning the Fazer felt different; it was truly mine, not a borrowed relic like the Zephyr.

Riding the Fazer was a blast. It had more guts, a killer sound, and handled like a dream compared to the Zephyr. Those twin exhausts under the pillion seat? Absolute eye candy. But it wasn’t all smooth riding. The handlebars were a tight fit, often leaving my wrists begging for mercy after a long ride.

Though I didn’t venture on epic road trips with the Fazer, it became my companion for spirited local jaunts and occasional rides to Wales with Dad. Sundays were made for what I liked to call a ‘quick bimble’—just me, the bike, and the open road.

As life marched on—new job, buying property, deepening ties at home—the Fazer and I shared four glorious years. It was tough to let go, but when it was time for an upgrade, the bike stayed in the family, passing on to my brother-in-law, a fresh-faced licensee eager to carve his own biking story.

What did I love? Those twin exhausts—never got tired of them. What wasn’t so great? Those wrist-aching handlebars. Sure, I could have swapped them out, but sometimes you just live with the quirks, right?

The Fazer wasn’t just a bike; it was my gateway to the biking world, a chapter of my life filled with freedom, adventure, and personal growth. But as the road stretched out before me, I knew I was ready for more—more power, more distance, more adventures. The journey was just beginning.

My Endless Quest for the Perfect Ride

Let's be honest—I'm always on the hunt for new bikes. It's practically a sport for me, much to my partner's chagrin. Every time I'm scrolling through bike listings, he throws up his hands and says, "You don't need a new bike; you already have one!" Clearly, he doesn't get the bike bug like I do. He did brave a ride on my latest acquisition, but alas, decided once was enough. My dream of shared two-wheeled adventures remains just that—a dream.

My obsession with the Yamaha Tracers isn't new; I've hoarded magazines featuring them since their debut. So when I stumbled upon a 2018 Tracer 700 in Lancashire, listed by a dealer on Auto Trader, it felt like fate. The dealer sent over a video walkthrough, and I fell for it hook, line, and sinker—even though we hadn’t met in person. My only hesitation was the bike’s height, given my more compact stature.

Throwing caution to the wind, I financed the bike—enticed by the promise of small upfront costs. The Tracer, with its spirited MT07 engine, was an absolute thrill. It wasn't just about speed; it was about how it begged to be ridden just a bit harder, though I'm no speed demon. It was the first bike I could ride all day—well, until the inevitable numb bum set in.

I tricked it out with all sorts of gear: a Zieger bash plate that screamed 'adventure,' heated grips for chilly mornings, tank pads, and a Quad Lock charging point for endless navigation. I even dabbled with different mirrors but eventually reverted to the originals.

This bike turned every outing into an adventure. I explored Wales, commuted to work in fair weather (storm riding was a no-go for me), and cherished every ride. It was my escape, my joy—too precious to risk in lousy weather or mundane commutes. Yet, sometimes the urge to ride it to work was irresistible.

I would have kept that bike forever if fate hadn't had other plans. One ordinary day, as I was riding out of my lane, disaster struck. My hand snagged on the throttle, the bike flipped, and I was flung backward as my beloved Tracer met the pavement in a tragic ballet of oil and metal. It was totalled. Thankfully, my gear saved me from worse injuries.

Insurance was a silver lining, offering more compensation than expected. I paid off the bike's finance and even had enough left for a new bike deposit. But moving on wasn't easy. I still hold onto the Tracer’s number plate and a framed photo in my garage—my secret shrine to a lost love.

What I adored: the thrill of the ride and the call of the open road. What I didn’t: the crash that ended it all.

That Tracer wasn’t just a bike; it was a chapter of my life I wasn’t ready to close. Even today, I catch myself eyeing new Tracers, the temptation always lurking. The road goes on, and so does the hunt

My Odyssey at the NEC Motorbike Show

The NEC Motorbike Show: a glorious carnival of two-wheeled wonders, a paradise for the bike-obsessed. As I roamed the aisles in 2019, my eyes feasted on bikes that danced on the edge of my imagination. If only I had an endless fortune and a warehouse-sized garage to match. Alas, reality had other plans.

Then, like a beacon in a sea of chrome and steel, I spotted it—the Honda stand. Nestled among the gleaming machines stood a matte blue beauty, a sporty naked bike that sparked my curiosity. Surprisingly, I didn’t recognize it. You see, I prided myself on knowing every bike in the game, except maybe the oddball in Honda’s lineup. Except for the Africa Twin, of course—that beast had my heart.

I dragged my brother-in-law over, and together we perched on the mysterious bike. It felt different, intriguing. But as I dismounted, I couldn’t shake my apprehension about naked bikes, scarred by memories of my Zephyr days. Yet, something about this one lingered in my mind, resurfacing years later when fate intervened with a crash and a need for a new ride.

Hours vanished as I pored over Honda's website, comparing specs and building fantasies. Eventually, I mustered the courage to test ride one. One dealer, lacking a demo model, graciously lent me a bike from their training fleet. An hour-long ride later, I was hooked. The CB650R felt like a world away from my clunky Zephyr, exuding raw power and modern finesse. It was the first bike where I could comfortably plant both feet on the ground—a revelation.

After much deliberation (and a flirtation with the Yamaha XSR700), I took the plunge. Four weeks later, my very own CB650R gleamed in my garage, a symbol of newfound freedom and adventure. Its growling engine urged me to push harder, rev higher, and explore further. Adventures beckoned, and though confined to UK roads for now, dreams of distant horizons danced in my mind.

Sure, it had its quirks—the handlebars left my wrists longing for a bit more elevation, and the wind buffeting on motorways demanded a firm grip. But with a few tweaks and accessories—visor, heated grips, a quick shifter, and custom pannier holders—it became my trusty steed, ready for any journey, any terrain.

And yet, amidst all the adventures and daydreams of off-road escapades, one thing remained constant: my love for the CB650R. It wasn't just a bike; it was a testament to my journey—a journey filled with twists, turns, and endless miles of pure joy.

What I adore: The sheer sight of it—every glance feels like falling in love all over again. What I wish for: Just a tad more elevation on those handlebars to spare my wrists the occasional ache.

My first brand-new bike, a love affair that grows stronger with every ride. As tempting as the call of adventure bikes may be, this one has claimed a piece of my heart that I simply can't relinquish. So, I’ll keep riding, keep exploring, and keep falling in love with the road, one mile at a time.