here aren’t many things faster in a tight canyon than Motorcyclist Senior Editor Adam Waheed on a Triumph Speed Triple RS. The signs say araf—“slow” in Welsh—and the roads are a perfect inky black, freshly cleaned by rain and draped through the contours of steep green hills. Waheed is on a burn. Stone walls resonate with the bark and echo of the 1,050cc triple and the thump of my Triumph Thruxton R, its narcotic swell hot on his heels. We’re as bad as any combination of man and machine that has turned into the little parking lot above the perfect blue lake the locals call Llyn Myngul. The world is in rare alignment; the weather is crisp and fine. We have half a second to enjoy it before the thunderous ripping of jet-ignited air turns the pastoral reverie inside out. Out of nowhere, a pair of McDonnell Douglas F-15C Eagles descend, sharing the same curving canyon for just an instant.