Like you, good reader, I don’t mind sitting up late on a Sunday night with a blanket across my lap, in a quiet house with a block of chocolate, absorbing an international road race on the telly. I reckon it’s one of the last great gladiatorial sports. MotoGP riders banging fairings, dragging elbows on the track and braking so hard their cojones must end up in their throat seems to defy physics.
Exiting a corner under power in a set of mountain S bends with the front wheel light and changing direction with the footpegs is one of the ‘Fk yeah! How good is this!’ moments a motorcycle can provide.
Riding a rural road like it was the Mugello track is obviously a life-limiting exercise, but I’ve seen it done in many a ‘ya gotta be off your gourd’ fashion.