As those of you misguided enough to read the outpourings of my diseased mind on a regular basis will be aware, my love affair with my pretty, but not so comfy 23-year-old super sport bike is coming to a natural end.
The feisty baby R1 really is the preserve of the younger, less fat rider who has taken less tumbles than yours truly and whilst I did really enjoy hooning her around Castle Combe, when news came that I would be losing a lock-up, I had to slim down my toy collection.
As the pocket rocket hadn’t had an MoT for some years, as you don’t really need one for track days, I booked