5th April 2008 - I've just finished writing three bike reviews and a race report. And I'm sat here marvelling at the difference between the last two bikes I wrote up.

At one end of the scale we've got the Harley Nightster. It looks, and rides, like something out of the seventies. Yes, I do mean the nineteen seventies, but you may have a point. It's deliberately unsophisticated and although it's got some really clever and modern touches, like the indicators which contain the tail lights and brake lights as well and look frankly drop dead cool, it's unashamedly old school technology. It's also one of the most fun bikes I've ever ridden. The brakes are mediocre at best, the suspension is harsh and the performance is adequate but no more. Handling is OK but again it feels like something out of the seventies. And yet every time I sat on it I smiled. Every time I cracked the throttle open I smiled a little wider. And I found myself thinking that it was probably one of the best motorbikes I'd ever ridden.

 

At the other end we've got the Suzuki B-King. A hundred and eighty one horsepower of fuel injected, variable ECU mapped powerhouse in an ultra sophisticated chassis with bleeding edge styling. Staggering performance, brilliant handling, sublime brakes. Sensory overload threatened every time I gave it more than a cautious handful and yet there I was, laughing like a loon as the back spun again and the front launched off the ground as soon as the rear gripped. Yes, it will wheelspin in all six gears. Yes, it will lift the front when you change into fifth. And yes if you treat it with anything less than total respect it will tear your head off and crap down the hole. And I found myself thinking that it was probably one of the best motorbikes I'd ever ridden.

Tomorrow I'll be out on my GSX-R 750. It's not the current model any more. It's done rather a lot of miles in all sorts of conditions, from snow to baking sunshine, on the road and on the track. And more than once on the journey I'll find myself thinking that it's probably one of the best motorbikes I've ever ridden.

So please. If we ever meet, don't ask me what the best bike I've ever ridden is. Because it'll probably be whatever is parked outside...

28th April 2008 - Time for a quick catch-up. Although we cover World Superbikes wherever they are, we only attend rounds in Europe. For the simple reason that flying to, say, Australia for the weekend and coming back to the day job on Monday is a little impractical. And expensive. So for us, the first real round was Valencia.

Valencia is a beautiful city. if you have a chance you should go there - and not just for the racing. There is some astonishing architecture there, both ancient and modern, and the road network is very good. I know this because I saw rather a lot of it when trying to find the hotel. Google Maps is a fantastic service. It's really very clever indeed, and gives you the facility, completely free, to plan your route from A to B. But Valencia has had some major infrastructure improvements since the last time the Google eggheads downloaded any satellite imagery. And as a result the instructions were almost totally useless. So I explored. Rather a lot. And ended up finding a taxi driver who spoke perfect English and directed me to my hotel. All of about five hundred yards away. In fact, if I'd looked up i would have been able to see it. Because it's the tallest building for miles.

We stayed at the Gran Hotel Valencia, booked through laterooms.com, and it was fabulous. Well, the room was OK but the food and drink was reasonably priced, the view was amazing and it was easy to get to the circuit.

Valencia circuit is a laugh. As the first European round, it's the place that most journos and photographers go to collect their passes for the year. Spanish logic says that you can't get to the Media Centre, where the passes are held, without a pass. This makes it challenging. Fortunately one of the guys had a freelance colleague with him, and event passes were given out at the accreditation centre outside. So, one by one, we all borrowed her pass and went in to the Media Centre to get the right ones. The officious security guards checked the pass each time, despite watching us swap between each other. And none of them commented that I didn't look like I should be called Sharon.

I think that worried me more than anything else.