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BMW S1000RR - IT'S ALL TRUE

Because the bad kids always sit at the back of the bus, The Hurricane and I found common cause on the rear bench seat and amused ourselves by promising to dress Gobert in a frock and take him dancing that evening, while making repeated demands that the bastard bus driver find a drive-through bottle shop.

We eventually arrived at the Silverwater Resort, which is actually in San Remo. After checking in, I made my way to an altogether marvellous unit with a heart-wrenchingly beautiful view of the bay from its large L-shaped balcony, had a shower, and congratulated myself on being one of the luckiest bastards on the face of the planet.

Then I went to have a beer at the resort bar. I was joined shortly by Rennie Scaysbrook, a young bloke whose father is the equivalent of Australian motorcycling royalty, but who is entirely unaffected by this. And as a result is one of the nicest blokes you’d ever wanna have a beer with.

The Hurricane was not far behind. He bought me a beer and we were joined by Steve Martin and Project Manager Sep, and I listened in reverential awe as Steve told tales of endurance racing and the Hurricane shared stories of his glory days – which were indeed altogether glorious.

We were then driven to Churchill Island (a kind of upscale farm and wildlife refuge), which had been entirely booked out by BMW, apparently so that it could feed us away from the general public. And please don’t think I’m saying that like it was some kind of bad thing. There should, in fact, be more of that sorta thing.

Anyway, once there, we were fed lark’s tongues in aspic, a robust variety of terrines and confits, and a steady and most piquant selection of bits of grenouilles, lapins, dindes, canards and beer.

And then I called Island Mick and begged him to fetch me.

There are only so many happy thoughts allotted to me in any given day, and I figured those that remained to me were best spent among my friends.

I was unusually pleased by the sight of Mick’s rescue vehicle making its way across the narrow bridge that joins Churchill Island from Phillip Island.

To then be suddenly enveloped in vast bonhomie by Mick, Frog and Cricky, my hands filled with ice cold cans of bourbon and dry, and the sensational Mel at the wheel, is a wonderfully transcendental experience.

Mel drove us to a deserted San Remo – and I gotta tell you that Phillip Island without the crowds is a strange and rather magical place – and left us to do a bit of drinking. To their credit, the blokes didn’t insist I hit the piss hard. The racetrack, as Frog went to great lengths to explain, is not to be taken lightly – and I had no desire to be the first man to throw a S1000RR into Bass Strait.

Talk to anyone who has raced there. Phillip Island is fast. Very, very fast. And I had every intention of going home in a plane – not a helicopter. So my drinking was measured and interspersed with much laughter, all of which was transferred into the street when the pubs closed, and from there back to my resort..

We arrived to see The Hurricane being transported back to his apartment in a golf kart. Apparently, he’d taken a bit of a nap on one of the asphalt drives and resort management was concerned that he may have caught a chill if he was left out, seeing as how a midnight sea mist was swirling in to cover the area with a spectral lambency.

Frog, Mick, Cricky, and I hung out on the balcony for a while, yelling and roaring and then the blokes decided I needed to sleep, so they called themselves a taxi, bid me goodnight and left me to consider what the next day held in store.

Ever since I gave up smoking cigarettes, my hangovers have been somewhat less malignant and debilitating. So I was in reasonably good shape as I wolfed down my breakfast, grabbed my gear and loaded myself onto the bus to head to the track. The Hurricane was nowhere to be seen.

In short order we were offloaded behind the pits, and when we walked through a carpeted pit garage bedecked with soft chairs, past a fridge packed with water, juice and soft drinks and into pit lane, I did a double take. An entire herd of S1000RRs had been arrayed before us. There were black ones, grey ones, green ones and red, white and blue ones. There was even a fully optioned-up one with an Akrapovic can and carbon fibre everywhere.

My old friend Steve Brouggy had been enlisted into running the event – which basically consisted of an unspoken plea for an incident-free day. He explained that we’d been divided into two groups and would be sharing a bike with a partner, so that when one of us was out on the track, the other would be relaxing. My partner was The Hurricane, who had yet to make an appearance at the track. I wondered briefly if he had gotten a chill.

We were told to gear up. The first session was at 9am and the standard ride-day talk followed, then we mounted the Bimmers and Steve Martin led us out onto the hallowed bitumen – all of us on brand new, unscrubbed Metzeler K3 Racetecs.

No worries, I thought, as I settled into the seat. This is a thinly disguised race bike I have never ridden before and which I am now riding on brand new tyres, on one of the world’s fastest racetracks (which I have also never ridden before), and I’m expected to keep up with an alien who races other aliens through the night at speeds in excess of 300km/h.

I had shit-all time to adapt to the ergos, but could feel the bike was roomy (even the three-metre tall Stuart looked alright) and my knees, though tucked relatively high, weren’t uncomfortably positioned. The riding position is pure race crouch – though certainly not as extreme as the MV Agusta – so there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that BMW had indeed taken this Superbike schtick seriously. How seriously was being underscored by the muted growl emanating from the motor as I leaned it gently into Turn One.

The bikes were all switched to Rain mode for the first session. And since these modes are all-important, it’s probably best I explain how they work. There are four modes all up. Rain, Sport, Race and Slick…or “Sick” as it came to be known. Each mode is unique and can be switched on the move simply by toggling a switch on the left switchblock, which then gives you a minute to pull in the clutch and throttle off, thus allowing the mode to change. Essentially, while all the torque is available in every mode, what changes is both the amount of power available (only 155bhp in Rain mode) and how that power is delivered to you. So in Rain mode, the throttle response is not as crisp as it is in Sport mode, nowhere near as instant as it is in Race mode, and nothing at all like the demonic marvel it becomes in Slick mode.

This is then coupled to the ABS and DTC – all of which can be turned off or on or adjusted to suit your riding needs and abilities…there’s even this supernatural lean angle sensor in the rear seat hump which is linked to sensors in the gearbox and wheels and the CPU. And if it ever becomes self-aware it’s gonna make Skynet its bitch.

What this all means is that BMW has, in effect, built an idiot-proof superbike. “How is that possible?” you ask. Well, I’m not sure how, but I do know that it is possible because I have ridden it. Check this out as an example…

In Rain mode, the lean sensor will only allow you to accelerate if your lean angle is 38 degrees or less, thus virtually eliminating your chances of highsiding yourself into the arms of Jesus. In Sport mode, the angle is increased to 45 degrees. In Race it is 48 and in Slick it is 53 degrees. This all then linked to the ABS system and the DTC, so seamlessly and so well that Steve Martin states he is actually as fast with the ABS on as he is with the ABS off. Of course, the bike allows you to adjust the amount of ABS and DTC, so that you can wheelie out of corners while laying giant girl-impressing blackies. If the bike senses you’re too hard on the front brakes and the back is losing traction, it will, in nanoseconds, seamlessly ease off the front stoppers and allow the back to replant itself on the bitumen. It is all about allowing you total control of your ride, while making sure you don’t come to grief when your ambitions over-ride your abilities.

I hesitate to state this is the safest bike I have ever ridden, since I don’t believe that inanimate machinery can be safer than the wombat in charge of it, but I really don’t know how else to put it. This is a bike that will make you faster than you have any right to be and safer than you probably think you are.

All of which was utterly lost on me the first time I encountered Southern Loop. Sorry, but what the bastard fuck kind of shitting corner is that thing? Twelve little apexes with a blind little crest somewhere between apex four and apex six…like, what is that all about? I did it 50 times that day and probably got it almost right twice – and by “almost right” I mean I didn’t burp vomit in fear.

The run down into Honda wasn’t too bad, but only because I was still appalled by Southern Loop, and Honda itself was no big deal. When you have successfully done Turn Two at the Creek, no other hairpin holds any fear at all. But then it all went to shit at Siberia – yet another wretched left-hander with more weird-arse apexes than I could deal with and which I invariably turned into too early – except for that one time I was following Miles Davies around for a few laps and then it was only mildly crap.

The kinked run to the Hayshed, which the Hurricane kept telling me I should be doing flat out in fourth and displaying “commitment” as if it was some kind of chick-relationship, had me buggered every time too – but only because I was always messing up Siberia. And if you mess Siberia, you’re gonna mess everything all the way into Turn 12.

But that was the least of my problems as I encountered Lukey Heights for the first time and felt my anus nom-noming prime BMW vinyl. A blind uphill left, taken at speed, and followed by a stupid, horrible shitheel of a right, known as “MG” – which obviously stands for Mongrel Gronkershit – which occurs what seems like the second you crest Lukey Heights and feel your stomach drop into your feet – and then you’re into what must be one of the maddest and baddest combos of left-hand horrors on this great green earth.

Turns 11 and 12. Yeah baby. They be some big-arse turns those two bastards. I certainly cannot ride them with anything remotely resembling precision. I do them with raw, naked, shrieking terror and count myself fortunate to emerge in a fashion that allows me to accelerate up the straight on this insane BMW, which I can only now begin to hear is also shrieking its head off.

That was my first lap. I did it all another 49 times. I think I only took maybe five breaths per lap – at least one of which was a ragged, frightened gasp every time someone overtook me – an event that occurred with damning frequency. I’m pretty sure Steve Martin did me twice in one lap.

But I don’t think I have ever had a bigger grin on my face as I came in to Pit lane at the end of my first session. What a racetrack! What an amazing, amazing, amazing stretch of sublime bitumen. I would have time to adore the BMW in later sessions, but after this first one, all I could think of was the track.

“How’d ya go, ya fat prick?” the Hurricane asked, resplendent in blue and yellow leathers and redolent with last night’s excesses.

“Really good,” I replied. “I’ve scrubbed the tyres in for you and I’ve left in Rain mode so you won’t fill your leathers with shit when you crack the throttle open.””

The Hurricane laughed, climbed on the bike, toggled it instantly to Slick mode and set off in pursuit of his group which had left pit lane and was even now making its way around Southern Loop.

He emerged very shortly afterwards on the main straight, head down, thumbs in his eyes and on it – big time. Daylight followed him. Then the rest of his group came along. He had caught and passed them by the time they were climbing Lukey Heights – and while he may not be as fast as he once was, Kevin Magee is still several shitloads faster than most of the world’s population.

“Gee, Mistah Doohan,” I said to him when he came back. “You’ve still got it.” Then I stuck it into Sport mode and went out to see what 190-odd German horses felt like.

What can I tell you? They felt fearsomely fine. In Sport mode, the throttle was instantly and noticeably more responsive. And it was even more noticeably responsive with each progression. I briefly tried Slick, but figured I already had enough to concern myself with learning the track without adding a totally unleashed S1000RR to my woes. So I hovered between Race and Sport. And did I mention the powershifter is standard?

Thus went our day. Somewhere before lunch some weird mist rolled in across the track, which seemed to please Sep since it could have been an opportunity to suss out the DTC. I was privately terrified, but the mist did nothing except look otherworldly, then it was burnt off and the sun continued to shine on the Island.

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