But it is the fantastic 1200cc,
HT (High Torque) water-cooled
powerplant, sitting low in the
frame that delivers true
Hinckley genius.
arms is removed, but the steering is taut, and
that frame loves a corner when you scratch a bit.
The seat is unassuming – frankly, it looks a little
retro and plain, but I can ride 300k’s with just two
coffee stops – one before and one in the middle
- and leap off ready to ride some more. Why? The
saddle is not plush, but it has give, and it is easy to
move about on with none of the bum-clutching
immobility of the spongy offerings from the cruiser
ranks. The clocks are clear and easy to read.
The finish of the bike is gorgeous, and the new
colour schemes of the 2017 model have sparkle
and flair, but still impart the solid retro feel and a
look that turns motorcyclists’ heads every single
day. On my 2016 bike I have made some small
mods that I prefer, bar end mirrors, instead of
the tall-stalked circulars it came with, Vance and
Hines pipes that give a more full-throated roar
when using the ‘whacky stick’, better levers, and a
fly screen which is quite remarkable for reducing
turbulence to the helmet on a longer journey. Now
most of these can come as standard on the new
2017 model, and they offer great value for money.
But it is the fantastic 1200cc, HT (High Torque)
water-cooled powerplant, sitting low in the frame
that delivers true Hinckley genius. The ride-by-
wire throttle works faultlessly and responds in
real time with no discernible delay, and feeds
those two big parallel pots raw meat. Make no
mistake, this bike is a true British Lion. A great
big cat with enough power to give a serious
mauling, but it’s a beautifully well-trained cat
too. It never behaves like some strange Italian
feline with a dose of the ‘kitty-spooks’.
Instead it is solid, powerful, understated.
Classic, and British to the Teeth.
The torque in that HT motor is seemingly unlimited;
smoother than whipped cream, and pulls like a
damn locomotive. As the power pours out under
the thrumming tyres, the road disappears and
the gearbox is silky and endless. Roaring past
the highway limit in third gear you just keep
pulling on into fourth; the train then snicks into an
enormous fifth and, as orbital launch is reached,
there’s even more in the planet-hopping sixth
cog. Then time stands still. The road floats past,
appearing smoothly and whipping past the edge
of vision. And all the time that faultless great
lion-heart purrs deeply underneath, and there
KIWI RIDER 77