Difference between revisions of "Honda CB450K/reviews"

Honda has always made "small" machines, with the distinguished exception of the startling CB750 "four". Engine sizes have varied from 50 cc to 450 cc, but they are usually more comfortable for those of smaller-than-average stature. Riding position is narrow and neat, and even the most un­gainly, misshapen figure would find itself organised into a tidy, knees-and-elbows-in, straight-armed style. Lean into the wind if you must, but it would look most improper on a mount of such middle-class propriety. The re-shaped petrol tank, slimmer, taller, and the almost unkinked handlebars (from where every mechanical operation stems, rear brake and gear change apart, and from where, on a dark and serpentine road, one could control progress—starting/stopping, directional changes, headlight beam, horn-blasting and all— without moving much more than the thumbs of either hand), must answer for the respectability of the riding style.

Honda has always made "small" machines, with the distinguished exception of the startling CB750 "four". Engine sizes have varied from 50 cc to 450 cc, but they are usually more comfortable for those of smaller-than-average stature. Riding position is narrow and neat, and even the most un­gainly, misshapen figure would find itself organised into a tidy, knees-and-elbows-in, straight-armed style. Lean into the wind if you must, but it would look most improper on a mount of such middle-class propriety. The re-shaped petrol tank, slimmer, taller, and the almost unkinked handlebars (from where every mechanical operation stems, rear brake and gear change apart, and from where, on a dark and serpentine road, one could control progress—starting/stopping, directional changes, headlight beam, horn-blasting and all— without moving much more than the thumbs of either hand), must answer for the respectability of the riding style.

One of many pleasures in this era of refined, discerning and "leisure" (pronounced "leesure" in deference to the nation from which that vast industry stems) motorcycling is that of firing a machine at the push of a button. All right, so it's unshaven, foul-breathed, red-blooded masculinity to swing your motor into life with a steel-muscled, hairy right leg. But at the time of writing I bear a fresh scar on my calf as evidence of weaknesses in this system. (The worst pain to 'bear is that of smiling through tightly clenched teeth at amused onlookers as agony fastens its grip, before giving a nonchalant wave to dismiss the incident, and dashing around the first corner to wring the 'blood out of a soaking sock, roll around in the road clutching the leg and curs­ing one's Maker, the machine's maker, and anyone within sight, sound or living memory, especially one's wife for not sympathising and even more so when she does.) Not so with the Honda CB450. Turn on petrol; flick back choke lever; switch on ignition; depress right thumb on handlebar 'button and there you have it. A rustling from the starter motor, smaller than the earlier component and the rather high-pitched note of the twin is there to confound your friends and bring a knowing smile to the lips of the old-timers as they stroll away, stiff right legs in perfect step, to talk of the Good Old Days when you could tell which were men and which were girls because the latter danced backwards.

One of many pleasures in this era of refined, discerning and "leisure" (pronounced "leesure" in deference to the nation from which that vast industry stems) motorcycling is that of firing a machine at the push of a button. All right, so it's unshaven, foul-breathed, red-blooded masculinity to swing your motor into life with a steel-muscled, hairy right leg. But at the time of writing I bear a fresh scar on my calf as evidence of weaknesses in this system. (The worst pain to 'bear is that of smiling through tightly clenched teeth at amused onlookers as agony fastens its grip, before giving a nonchalant wave to dismiss the incident, and dashing around the first corner to wring the 'blood out of a soaking sock, roll around in the road clutching the leg and curs­ing one's Maker, the machine's maker, and anyone within sight, sound or living memory, especially one's wife for not sympathising and even more so when she does.) Not so with the Honda CB450. Turn on petrol; flick back choke lever; switch on ignition; depress right thumb on handlebar 'button and there you have it. A rustling from the starter motor, smaller than the earlier component and the rather high-pitched note of the twin is there to confound your friends and bring a knowing smile to the lips of the old-timers as they stroll away, stiff right legs in perfect step, to talk of the Good Old Days when you could tell which were men and which were girls because the latter danced backwards.