So, this whole 250rr top speed thing. It’s been bugging me for a while, you know? You hear all sorts of numbers thrown around, guys online bragging, others saying it’s a glorified scooter. I figured, heck, I’ve got one sitting in the garage, why not find out for myself? Not like I had a pressing engagement with a duchess or anything. My kid, bless his heart, kept asking if it was faster than his video game cars. That kind of put the nail in the coffin. I had to know.
First things first, I wasn’t about to just hop on and pray. Safety first, even if it’s just me being a stubborn old goat. Checked the tires, gave ’em a bit of air. Oil looked okay, chain wasn’t too sloppy. Didn’t want the darn thing to decide to become a two-wheeled unicycle at high speed. Then came the hard part: finding a decent stretch of road. You’d think that’d be easy, but nope. Every straight bit is either crawling with traffic, or you got those speed traps hidden like Easter eggs. Took me a good hour driving around, burning fuel in my truck, just to scout a spot. Finally remembered that old service road out past the abandoned mill. Nobody’s been down there in years, perfect.
Got the bike there, felt a bit like a secret agent on a mission, if secret agents rode slightly underpowered motorcycles. Weather was decent, not too windy, which was a plus. I put on my old leather jacket, the one that’s seen better decades, and my helmet. Took a deep breath. It’s funny, you do these things, and there’s a little voice in your head saying, “What are you, twelve?” But then the other voice, the louder one, just says, “Throttle time!”
So, I started her up. Let it warm up a bit. The little engine was thrumming away, eager, or maybe that was just me. Pulled out onto the road, checked both ways even though I knew it was deserted. And then, well, I just opened her up. Tucked in as much as my not-so-flexible body would allow. The wind started pushing, the engine note climbed. First gear, second, third… you know the drill. It’s not like those big superbikes that try to rip your arms off. It’s more… gradual. Earnest, you could say.
I kept an eye on the speedo, pushing it, gear by gear. The little 250rr was screaming its heart out. It’s like watching a small dog trying to keep up with the big boys. You gotta admire the effort. The road was straight, thankfully. I held it pinned for what felt like an eternity, probably just a few seconds. Saw the needle creep up, then kinda… hover. It wasn’t going any further. That was it. That was all she wrote.
So, what was the magic number? Well, let’s just say it was… respectable for what it is. It wasn’t setting any land speed records, that’s for sure. And definitely not what some of those keyboard warriors claim they get while riding uphill, in a headwind, carrying a passenger. People love to exaggerate, don’t they? It’s like my old boss, always talking about his “revolutionary ideas” that were just rehashed stuff from a seminar he slept through. This bike, it’s honest. It gives you what it has, no more, no less.
Honestly, the number itself wasn’t even the main thing by the end of it. It was just the act of doing it, of finding out for myself. Stripping away the BS and just seeing. Sometimes you just gotta do things, you know? Otherwise, you’re just taking someone else’s word for it. And where’s the fun in that? It reminded me of when I was trying to fix that old radio. Everyone said, “Throw it out, get a new one.” But I tinkered, messed with wires, burnt my finger once or twice. And eventually, crackle, static, then music. Not perfect, but it was my music, from my effort. Same feeling with this little speed run. Now I know. And my kid? He was just happy I came back with a story. That’s worth more than a few extra MPH on a dial anyway.