It's for moments like this, we do it. We tolerate so very much. The endlessly tiresome secret track rides on unspeakably priceless prototipos. We feign excitement as custom-blended tires are plucked from steaming Banbury mixers half a world away, jetted via chartered Concorde, belly-landed into the God-forsaken Rosamond desert and carried, still warm, by breathless, hopeful engineers to Willow Springs Raceway for the privilege of being abraded to their very cord by our disinterested editors. And inevitably savaged in the pages of Motorcyclist. The drudgery.
No question, we take our role here as industry star-makers very seriously. And pity the company that dares send us a substandard sample handgrip or mildly uncomfortable earplug, for cowering in their pathetic industrial units in Santa Fe Springs, they shall feel the unholy white-hot hellfire of our unspeakable wrath. No thanks necessary. It's our job, protecting you, the slack-jawed, dim-witted and in-bred consumer.
Which brings us to this particular image. Here, Editor Catterson luxuriates between riding stints with his minions, scanning the Internet to kill a few idle minutes. He's initially shocked to see news leaked of the first legitimate liquid-cooled Buell ever (all previous versions involved incontinent Great Danes). Looks like some low-rent cyber-rag giveaway blew the embargo on this puppy. Catterson, the professional that he is, isn't angered at being scooped. Instead, he grins at the prospect of shattering a career or three in savage, remorseless payback. What 13-year-old wouldn't want this job? "Fetch me my new custom single-use California-Condor-skin leathers! I feel a glory blast coming on!" Followed by a nap. Yes, a brisk nap.