Totally exhilarated, every nerve-ending buzzing with energy, I tailed Fabio through narrow lanes and light traffic – and learnt something very quickly. This machine was a race bike for the road, with no apologies. It was cramped, the riding position was totally committed and it was stiffly sprung, which meant that slow speed riding was a bit of a pain, quite literally – my wrists were aching and my calves cried out for mercy. The fuelling at these speeds was also a bit snatchy, and the gearbox noticeably notchier. Clearly, the faster you ride this bike, the happier it (and therefore you) feels. Still, it’s also renowned as a corner carver, and Fabio was clearly heading to a hilly section of road in order for me to get a feel of the bike in the twisties.

The first section of tight corners soon appeared, and Fabio set a lightning pace through them. He was soon far ahead, as I negotiated the first few turns gingerly, settling into a different rhythm from when we were shooting down the highway. There’s always a certain amount of fear when you’re riding a fast, very expensive bike through a series of corners, but I soon realised that this was misplaced. It was obvious that the bike had been set up for corners, and the pattern soon became select braking spot-lean in-hang off-straighten up-power out of the turn. The 312R’s heavier than most other superbikes (none of the trick carbon fibre and magnesium bits of the various F4 specials on this one), but personally I was thankful for this fact. A couple of other Japanese superbikes I’ve ridden are almost too flickable, and the extra weight, for me, was a confidence booster on a road like this. Flat out on a track, the bike would probably show its weight, but then I wasn’t flat out on a track, was I? This bike was talking back to me for sure; in a foreign tongue, at first, but I was beginning to understand it.I was soon confident enough to push the bike so I could at least keep Fabio in my sights, and the rest of the way up and down that hill was probably the best time I’ve ever had on a motorcycle. I felt I knew the bike enough to have some fun on it, so I hung off further, rode harder and grinned wider at every corner. We stopped at a few choice spots so I could quickly shoot some photos (I wanted to spend every second possible on that bike!), and then I followed Fabio back to the factory, this time managing to keep within a few bike lengths behind him. We burbled in and parked, both of us simultaneously taking off our lids and grinning. ‘You like, eh?’ he asked. Frankly, I was speechless and simply laughed. My hands were quivering and my calves were in extreme agony, but I had just had the bike ride of my life and wished that I could stay an extra day just to ride some more. I knelt reverentially next to the F4, thinking about the fact that you could go almost as fast for less than half the price on a whole host of Japanese superbikes. But would they stir the loins in such a manner? Would you feel hopelessly, inexplicably emotional upon merely looking at them? In a word, no. Sure, it’s expensive (and you know the rule about ‘if you have to ask...’) and it would be a struggle to ride daily in the real world, but that’s not the point. The F4 isn’t simply a motorcyle; it is, as the MV brochures say ‘motorcycle art’. Some people ‘get’ art, some don’t. I sure as hell got this masterpiece.