Every stop sign is an opportunity to launch a little harder and let the two-stroke sing a little longer. Ed and his TL follow as I confuse commuters with my mutated-leaf-blower-on-crack exhaust note, my GPS giving instructions in my ear as we criss-cross the city. By the time we hit the Golden Gate bridge, my cheeks hurt from smiling.
The CB650F is a case study in how Honda’s bikes always seem to magically outperform their spec sheets. The marketing materials are typically breathless, calling the bike the “purest form of motorcycling,” extolling the “handsome” four-banger’s “satisfying rush of power and torque” and “throaty growl” emitted from the “beautiful side-swept exhaust headers” that Max and Fish won’t shut up about.
