I really want to get excited about the BMW R1200 GS Adventure and I’m sure I will. With its amazing on-road and off-road credentials I can’t imagine I will ever find myself wanting another bike if I buy one.
But it’s not a Triumph Scrambler.
Somehow the Triumph Scrambler gives me something like butterflies in my stomach. I have a longing for this machine that I just can’t understand.
I would have to fill it up every two days or less for my daily commute.
It has no fairing to snuggle up behind on wet winter rides.
But still I want one. Badly.
It could be the sound. It could be the look. It could be that it’s British. There is something about the Triumph Scrambler that has really got under my skin. Now, like an itch you can’t scratch, I can’t get rid of the feeling in the pit of my stomach that says get one. The voices in my heart (if not my head) are even saying get one.
“The Triumph Scrambler has to be one of the best looking motorbikes ever made”
The feel on your arms as the torque kicks in is like nothing else you can imagine. Certainly the pull is strong enough to pull you into your nearest Triumph dealer and almost strong enough to pull your credit card out of your wallet.
I read the specs on the Triumph website and I might as well be reading something written in German (I can’t read German). It says something like “The twin balancer shafts provide civility and refinement. 90% of peak torque is maintained from around 2500rpm…” This means absolutely nothing to me. What I can tell you is that the ride is amazing, the bike works like an extension of your body and people stop and stare (sometimes with open mouths).
“It’s certainly a bike you would consider trading some of your vital organs for”
I was in a market town in Norfolk recently on a loan Scrambler from Norfolk Triumph and a gentleman engaged me in conversation and congratulated me on a quality restoration job. He simply could not believe that the Scrambler is a modern bike.
Conversations like that only serve to make the warm feeling in your stomach feel warmer still.
I might not be Steve McQueen as I criss-cross the country in my own version of the Great Escape trying out the finest sausage makers. But on a British Classic like the Triumph Scrambler, inside my helmet, I can at least pretend to be.