Honey's the last of the Slash Twos, manufactured the year Honda birthed the first superbike. Beemers were engineered to endure; the 750 Four was designed to change the world. Honey's no slam-dancer; unlike my late, lamented Ducati, she balks at standing on her nose and insists wheelies are for punks. Even with fresh Bel-Ray, her fork remains Gummikuh-squishy. Her sprung-cellulite saddle squeaks like Auntie Joyce's love seat. She craves a firm hand on her double-shoe drum. But Honey's low CG and modest torque make hard braking irrelevant. You just carry moderate speed and attend closely to her antique tires. Steer, shuffle, ssslide to your right; steer, shuffle, ssslide to your left. Fox-trotting is dancing, too.