The Yamaha SZR660 has the appearance of the motorcycle that got into the matter transporter with the fly and somehow hybridized in the space between. It looks and indeed is physically very small, although you have to lift your leg up quite high to clear the bulbous abdomen, ah um, I mean tailpiece. There's no question that it looks exotic, alien and other-worldly. Somehow the unlikely angles and curves work together to demonstrate the purposeful integration of a whole lot of series componentry. You've got an up-to-the-minute alloy frame design, loosely based on the current TZR model (and not simply a hacked about version of the same). The Paoli full adjustable usd forks are the same type as grace the famed Bimota Supermono and Paoli also furnish the rear shocker. The brakes are by Brembo. There's never any doubt that this bike has the right credentials to cope with the curves as well as or better than anything else on the road.Here's a link showing the 1998 red and black models together:
http://www.wbm.nl/nieuw/yamaha/supersport/szr660.htm
The motor is the same as equips MuZ's Skorpion range - Yamaha's own 659cc five-valve dry-sump lc single. It pumps out a claimed and very modest for its capacity 49ps (especially considering how many decades have passed since Goldie 500s could all but match that figure). But Yamaha have attempted to up the anti of motorcycle air dynamics with a wierd sort of flow-through channeling system. A large air duct under the very neat CEV light unit feeds through to the bike's air box and around the motor, and then exits through two exhaust ports either side of the tail unit. This in part gives a functional account of its strange appearance. It is supposed to add some negative pressure "pull" to the air flow at the tail, as well as the "push" of the positive air pressure at the nose. Whether or not it works, only time and more sophisticated bench testing than is currently possible will tell but Alan Cathcart (roadtest in the UK's Superbike magazine in 1995) claimed to have seen 120mph on a standard model. That seems improbably quick for a factory claimed (and usually 10 - 15% optomistic) 49ps.
The bars are very low and very narrow - I trapped my wrists well before the lock stops. The half fairing is surprisingly wide, with space aplenty flaring back from speedo tacho and water temp guage. The red line at 7000 rpm reminds you you're on a single but otherwise, it's pretty typical spartan sports-issue stuff.
It starts up with the lack of fuss you'd expect of a modern motor but there's no mistaking that the starter motor has got a big job on its hands in spinning the dustbin of a piston up and down its bore. It ticks over very quietly, faintly phutting away, with none of the shaking, violent or otherwise, I'd expected. Altogether, it looks very innocent. First gear engages undramatically. And then you let out the clutch. The fairing and clocks start jumping about and the needle on the temperature guage begins a vaguely exotic shimmy. The tacho says 2 grand, you say "I'm on a big single and that's nearly a third of the revs available", and the bike says "stop arsing around and give me more gas". You do, saying "3 grand then" and, like a forty-a-day man realising its 10:55pm and still a ten minute walk to the 'baccy shop, the bike lunges into a canter.
You let the revs drop again to 2 grand, now you're in motion. The transmission starts whipping around and the piston reminds you it's aimed at your solar plexus. You feather the clutch and re-establish contact with 3 grand. Now the seat is into high-frequency vibration. You're not sure whether either cheek is still in contact with the narrow but well upholstered seat, or just floating an eighth of an inch above it. You can't believe such a small and delicate looking bike can be so cantankerous and grumpy. It doesn't want to go at that speed. You're out into the flow of traffic now, in second and then third and fourth gears without much thought beyond "will my feet or my hands go dead first". You've now lost contact with your rear end. At least you don't have to worry about it any more. You crack open the throttle, looking for that famed big-single torque. In response, it wheezes and shuffles between 2.5 and 3.5 grand, town speeds, somewhere between 20 and 50 mph. You notice the suspension is very firm, thumping from one bump to the next but always always going where it's pointed. You swerve about a bit, just to see. The bike responds like a rugby football winger, dipping its shoulder instantly and smoothly. Reality intrudes as you realise your messing about has brought you to a 90 degree bend at 50mph. You squeeze the brake lever and the bikes progress is swiftly terminated with a barely perceptable pull on the steering to the left. You're glad you've no idea about the status of your underpants.
At last, the concentration required with the throttle around town eases as the road opens. So, in time-honoured tradition, you knock it down a cog and wring its grumbling little neck. The revs immediately soar and you take rapid evasive action around the car that you are, all of a sudden, closing on. You're around the sweaty box and up two gears instinctively and before you know it. The rev counter is hovvering at around 5 and a half grand, the exhaust note has taken on the characteristics of a big fat bumble bee denied honey and you're flying. It doesn't feel like the same machine. It's as if the fairies have suddenly waved a wand and the pumpkin has become a stallion. A dual carriage way. You're doing eighty in comfort. The fairing is deflecting an extraordinary amount of wind, quite belying the size of the thing. You're right in the middle of the power. You roll off the throttle to 3000. Back comes the nasty nocky rough old tractor. You roll it on again and, like magic, at 4000 rpm the farty Tiger Moth becomes a Spitfire. Although it's all over at 7000, the gears are generally tall, especially top, so that translates into a wide speed range and very usable indeed between 50 and 100.
Off the dual carriageway and onto a backroad. The surface has been patched many times and the roadway suffered subsidence over the decades. It twists mightily over a two mile stretch into a village. The SZR does not float but beats its way along, thudding through the rear as it lays down its drive from crest to hollow. The front end soaks it all up without fuss, directing the heavily-damped rear with accuracy and speed. So you swoop into the sleepy village of Ledsham, as inconspicuous to the local farmers as one of their dear old cows venting another bowelful of greenhouse gases to the atmosphere. Only now you know about the myth of big-single low-down torque, so you use the gears and keep the motor spinning above the magic 4 grand mark. And spin it does. It hates low revs but doesn't mind low speeds.
At length, you come to the end of your journey. It has been very involving. You've the statutory grin on your face. The SZR 660 is a Jeckle and Hyde machine that's all refined on the surface and blood and guts underneath. Its 21st century appearance wants to tell you that it is as sophisticated as science can manage but the mighty single within ensures that the visceral biking experience is right at the heart of riding this machine. A sawn-off shotgun with ivory inlay. All that remains is for the feeling in your nether regions to return.