ZRX1200.

Sometimes it's a visual thing.

Subdued.

This motorcycle appears to be a typical Universal Japanese Motorcycle. Standard in appearance. No bodywork to speak of. Plain black engine,
standard inline 4. Green paint scheme from 1980. Literally. Idling around town, it handles just like most motorcycles do. It's OK. If it's free to
ride while your bike get's repaired. Like checking out a rental car with 10,000 miles on it. Would rather not, but under the circumstances...

Shizophrenia. An inability to reason, disturbing behavior and a disconnect with reality.

Brutal.

This motorcycle does not merely overtake other traffic, it annihilates it. Rip open the throttle and the bike explodes foward with a force undescribable with words.

The yellow dotted line is sucked up from the future and expelled into the past with incredible ferocity.

Remember Michael Jackson? Embodiment of the 1980's male. In touch with his inner self. Squeaky voiced. Gracefully sliding around the dancefloor backwards. Effiminate. That was the style then. Roles were not clear cut. Motorcycles were the same way. Michael Jackson was a metric 40 horsepower V-twin in a standard frame. With pull back bars. We might have bought them, but they were on sale. With 0% financing. Much like Michael Jackson albums, we might have had them, but we sure didn't tell anyone, and weren't sure what we really felt about them. Later on we threw them out and tried to forget the whole thing.

Flash forward 20 years. Skinny guys in loafers who know harmony can't sell squat. Angry, in your face, pumped up rappers who can bench press 300 pounds after kicking your middle aged suburban ass sell a million cd's every day. Todays consumers want something real. They want substance.

Understand where this is going?

Long straight road. Dead silence. Well, Wyoming silent, the ever constant wind in your ears. The road disappears into the distance, eventually into
a mountain a 50 miles away. Elk Mountain.

Seafood. Squidly Seafood. You be a squid.

First two fingers on your right hand firmly hold the brake lever back. Thumb and ring finger on the throttle. Engine silently running. Ten
thousand acres of nothing around you. Elk Mountain 50 miles in the distance. They have a bar there. The floor of the bar is supported by
hundreds of old car springs. Get a couple of dozen people in there partying and the whole place bobs up and down. You want to check it out.

Foreigner. This is a Foreigner moment. Rev it on the red line baby! Dump that clutch, and the adrenaline hits as you feel the bike lungeforward
against the front brake, your brain wondering are you going to accelerate madly into the distance, or break loose the traction into the mother of all
burnouts? You feel the forward pressure subside as the back end of the bike slowly moves to the left, painting a wide, curved black swath of rubber on the road. As the cloud of white tire smoke envelopes the motorcycle, you slowly let off the throttle, no sudden inputs when on the edge, and open up the clutch. The bike explodes towards the distance, front end slowly lifting up like a jet readying for takeoff. 60-90-120 miles per hour, front wheel skimming the pavement, not turning at all.

This bike might look like some harmony from the 80's, but the peformance is nothing but rap baby. In your face, gold tooth, tattoo, white T-shirt this
bike is for real.

PS - Buy one of these dudes, take it home, and spray paint the whole thing flat black. It will look better.

by joe steve, the nicest guy in motorcycling.