Kawasaki H2 v Suzuki Hayabusa v Yamaha YZF-R1 - MOTOR GERR

The Kawasaki H2 is choking on its leash, the throttle straining in my right hand as I hold the monstrous supercharger back. The digital speedo in indicating a calm 104mph, and I feel like I could step off and walk alongside. An imposing BMW 5-Series fills my horizon, its driver probably feeling that he’s tanking-on with three figures on the clock. But I want more. Come on Mr BMW, pull over.

I flick my left indicator on, signalling my intent, and his right indicator glows orange in response, as he begins to drift right with a lazy nonchalance that seems to say ‘I’m not bothered, you go faster if you want to’. I do want to. Back two gears to fourth, and the roar of air charging through the supercharger builds instantly as I steal a glance in my mirrors and roll the throttle back. The Busa and R1 are sat on each flank, close enough that you could throw a blanket over the three of us, but I’m about to stretch the arrow formation to breaking point.

That now-familiar surge is building beneath me as the clear stretch of unrestricted German autobahn unravels before me. I just have time to give Steve and Bruce a Barry Sheene-esque wave as I wind the H2’s throttle to the stop. The supercharger feels like it’s inhaling the horizon, the boost gauge confirming that I’ve got every horse the H2 can muster thrusting me forwards. The acceleration is immense, it feels like a superbike does from 60mph in second gear, but we’re doing well over the ton, and I’m in fourth. I keep the throttle pinned and fire home another gear with the quick-shifter. There’s no dip in the aggressive thrust, and as the clocks blitz through 150mph the Busa and R1 are shrinking in my mirrors like they’re both stuck in fourth gear.

There’s nothing ahead of me, and the conditions are perfect. I grab top gear, push my arse back against the seat unit and tuck in. This is it; 160, 170, 180. The H2 is still pulling hard. The inside lane is fading in my peripheral vision, the Busa and R1 are just specks. The Akrapovic is emitting a tortured howl, and still the supercharger crams air into the aluminium airbox. Bridges appear as thin as cables as they flash overhead, and suddenly I slam into the speed limiter like someone’s just slashed the fuel line. The speedo flicks dementedly between 186 and 187mph, and you can almost feel every fibre of the H2 apologising for the tease. It wants to give you everything, but can’t.

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