For this experiment I call up KTM for the new 990 RC R, the Austrians' first modern, road-legal sportbike since the legendary RC8. Its looks are almost as striking as its predecessor's. Slightly bewildered, I pick it up in Gembloux, then ride in a straight line clean across Wallonia toward Beaumont via dreadful national roads, it must be said. It's only once I cross into France that I go looking for my first proper corner.
A gravel road and a Frenchman who lied
That first corner comes quickly. So does the gravel. On RouteYou I forgot to tick the "avoid unpaved roads" box, and I regret it instantly. Not that the bike can't handle it, there's orange racing blood running through this thing, after all but I'm not exactly keen on a flat tyre, especially with suspension that isn't built to soak up rough surfaces gracefully. I ask a local Frenchman how much further this road goes. He assures me it's only 200 metres. I suspect the French use a different metric system, because those 200 metres turn out to be closer to two kilometres. Heart in my throat, I ride on through the forest. Not that it isn't beautiful, it's just not exactly ideal.
The land is bone dry at the start of summer. Farmers have already begun cutting the grain, the air is thick with dust, and the bare fields are scattered with hay bales all the way to the horizon. A dead-straight road cuts through the landscape, a church tower rising above everything in the distance. So I ride from village to village through the border region of northern France, on a bike that was actually built to tear around a racetrack as fast as possible. A little further on, the route even sends me straight through a stream. I could turn back, but that costs too much time, so I risk it and steer carefully across the slick stones. Luckily the water isn't too deep, and I reach the other side dry.
A surrogate grandmother
When the route then sends me down yet another gravel track through the fields, I've had enough. Before it gets too late, I look for a restaurant, and my navigation leads me to a small pizzeria in one of the many villages. From there, with the setting sun straight ahead of me, I ride on to Marie's chambre d'hôtes in the village of Folembray.
The friendly widow welcomes me into her cosy little house, while her dog and cat each greet me in their own way. After a scorching hot day I finally peel off my riding suit, flop down in the garden, and do absolutely nothing for a while, just soaking up the calm and the unhurried pace this village seems to breathe so effortlessly.
The next morning Marie sets a classic French breakfast in front of me. Before I leave, she warns me about the Folembray circuit. Like a worried surrogate grandmother, she urges me to be careful especially in the far, fast corner.
Folembray: no briefing, but a deer
A little later I arrive at the circuit, where three guys from West Flanders have already set up with their Legend cars: compact race cars, a kind of mini hot rod, powered by Yamaha's familiar three-cylinder engine from the MT-09 and R9. Together we check in with Fred, the circuit's owner. Everything here is refreshingly laid-back: no briefing, no long list of rules, just a single old car with a "Paramedic" sticker on it. All we get is a sheet with the timetable and even that turns out to be open to interpretation.
After a fresh downpour, I decide to skip the first two sessions. Not because it's impossible to ride, but because this racebike still has to get me safely home afterwards, and that's a risk I'd rather not take. By the third session the tarmac is bone dry again. I strip the luggage off the KTM and head out onto the track. No marshals, no other riders. I have the entire circuit to myself, and all the time in the world to explore it at my own pace.
That same morning, a deer had run into one of the Legend cars. For the driver, the day was over on the spot, and the deer wouldn't be bounding around anymore either. The circuit sits right in the middle of the forest, and in places the fencing is more of a suggestion than a guarantee. Reason enough to take my first laps with a healthy dose of caution.
Face to face with my childhood hero
After a few sessions it's time for the lunch break. I get talking to Fred again, who lives in the old villa that sits literally in the middle of the circuit. Before long he mentions that he's got two KTM RC8s sitting in his garage. What are the odds?
Naturally, I ask if I can take a look. Moments later he wheels both bikes out onto the tarmac. As a teenager I had a poster of the RC8 above my bed. I don't usually get starstruck by famous people or special places, but right now it almost feels like standing face to face with a childhood hero. It might sound silly, but the RC8's radical lines are so etched into my memory that seeing them again stirs up more than I expected.
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