The new-café aesthetic also works for me despite our generational differences. You are, as close as I can tell, raising a metaphorical digit to the plastic-encrusted bikes your dad rode. That whole sportbike arms race, more power, more sophistication, more aggravation—it’s just so tiring. Back before Ninja was anything but Japanese folklore and GSX-R was the cat walking on the keyboard there were simple machines, recognizable as such. Two wheels, an oft-leaking engine in the middle, headlight, tank, seat, and some other stuff. You didn’t need a sticker to know the displacement. Good times.