Strip it to the bone
Every gram costs you a mile an hour. Nothing on the bike that didn't make it faster.
Tune it until it screams
Twin carbs, open megas, timing dialled to the hundredth. You hear it before you see it.
Pin the throttle and hold
Flat out on the North Circular, visor down, no warm-up laps. The ton is earned, not given.
Built to ride, not to display
Bare aluminium, scratched levers, worn leather. Machines earn their scars at speed.