Roothy’s grand tour on the Triumph Rocket 3 GT.
Honestly? I’d read the reports, talked to the testers, heard all the good guff and still, to me, the Rocket 3 looked like something Pixar drew up for Buzz Lightyear Does Drugs. That big rear wheel floating on the end of a bar, a front end like a boxer’s nose, the solid trunk, hard on the eyes for someone who’s been riding since bikes had sprung seats.
And they call this one a GT? Hah! Grand Tourer? As in long days, big miles, comfort and luggage capacity. Flying backwards on a wheelbarrow really wasn’t going to crack the GT thing.
Maybe I mouthed too much because Triumph pulled out a demo and said ‘go find out’. Hey, it’s your $35K plus motorsickle, I’ll have a go at anything. It’s the only thing us survivors of the 70s do well.
Disclosure, I rode a 1972 Norton over to pick up the Rocket 3. This isn’t one of those cherry restorations, it’s an antiquated piece of shit that squeaks, farts, rattles and leaks – we’ve got so much in common. I love the old girl, but no wonder the new GT felt svelte and instant everywhere by comparison. However for something so alien, it also felt familiar, partly because that’s the same sensibly minimalist instrument pod as the Triumph Scrambler I’d tested last year, which meant doing the computery things was easy. And possibly because the dimensions aren’t out there in semi-trailer land like so much modern touring tackle, it was as easy to paddle around as the Norton. No need for electric landing wheels here.
Two lights up front and three pipes out the side is about the only familiarity it retains with the original Rocket though. This one was easy to leg over, first gear clicked in cold and by the time we were home I was loving it. The sheer balance of a brilliant handling and braking package wrapped around so much muscle is breathtaking.
An hour later I’m having a beer in the shed looking at this Rocket ship with stars in my eyes. Visually, it’s one of the most integrated pieces of engineering ever. There’s nothing on it that doesn’t do a job. There’s nothing on it anyway, just a seat on a huge power plant with a sprung wheel at each end and some monster stoppy things. In my shed full of minimalist motorcycles, the Rocket was right at home.
It was bloody hard to find somewhere to hook the ocky straps next morning. Eventually I found the unfolding pillion pegs and got a bag squeezed in between them and the grab rail. With a sheepskin thrown over for a back rest it was clutch in, neutral, click up that lovely side stand and thumb the button. The speedo flashes a digital lap and the motor bumps into life.
There’s two of my old Harleys squeezed into three cylinders under that glorious tank but there’s only a hint of vibration. Triples are notoriously smooth. No chance of waking the neighbours either, the exhaust note is pathetically untouched. By the time we’re into the hills south of Brisbane I’m sucking up the induction roar and cranking past a few trucks through the bends up Cunningham’s Gap, which is unbelievably easy. It’s not just the linear power, it’s the security of great suspension controlling all that soft fat rubber on the road. I punch harder through some lazy S-bends and the Rocket leans over and loves it.
There’s a stability here that’s more than just the new aluminium frame with its short, fat Showa forks and the massive single-sided swingarm locking the wheels in line. I’m going to go out on a limb and say there’s a gyroscopic effect going on with all that metal spinning – crankshaft, gears, driveshaft, all in a straight line. Whatever, the Rocket holds a line like a torpedo carving waves.
It feels like riding a torpedo too. The solid, sculptured mass of power plant and tank dominates everything from the rider’s view with the handlebars just there to hang on. I know some people don’t like forward controls but these work well, keeping the back straight so that hands drop straight to the controls. The morning traffic suggests the speedo’s under reading by 10 percent or more.
Warwick flashes up about the same time the fuel light does and the display says we’ve got 60km left. It only takes about 12 litres though, slowly, with a few dribbles thanks to a baffle plate that’s too close to the lid. The tank is a work of art shape wise, the sort you fall in love with, but it must be holding a lot of airbox and ducting because 18 litres isn’t a lot of fuel. This time I set the odometer and sure enough, 180km later near Glen Innes, I get the 60-kay range thing again.
Which is about when I realise I’ve been riding five hours with only a couple of short walks to pay for fuel. The Rocket 3 GT is gobbling up the miles so easily, it’s making the ride a joy. I’ve ridden BMW’s R 18 and Ducati’s XDiavel, possible contenders, and the GT nails both with its one-two of sheer punch and stability.
Mid-week traffic down the New England tends to be light, and pretty soon there’s a pattern. Cruise control, concise thanks to a mountain of engine braking, is set around 115km/h for the strolls between warp-speed passing. I didn’t see the highway patrol car near Armidale but there’s no scream. Cruise, squirt, flirt, remembering it’s got gears occasionally through towns – that massive motor makes it easy to rule the world. And it never feels like it’s working, ever. This is what lifts the Rocket 3 above the pack – it’s just too easy. Even the brakes offer massive stopping power with minimal effort. The rear brake alone has more stopping power than all my bikes put together but delivered with total control.
So I met Kog for dinner, and a day later we picked up Gibbo on the road. Mates of mine from the old UNEMC, we were heading to the Rabbit Trap Hotel to meet with the Sydney and Victorian pushes. As usual it was all mucking around exploring back roads during days peppered with pub lunches and nights remembering how good we used to be.
The trip home was straight up the Newell Highway and over the hill near Toowoomba. I rode 980km in 11 hours, with five fuel stops and an hour off for lunch. It was done with the clockwork precision the Rocket 3 achieves so easily with the ride computer showing a 112km/h average at the last garage before Brisbane. It was easy, maybe a bit stiff on the bum for the last few hours, but there’s nothing hard about maintaining miles on a Rocket 3. That’s real proof of its ability as a tourer, it shifts states as easy as gears.
Is it a Grand Tourer though? That might be pulling it down a notch. For some of us the Triumph Rocket 3 GT is more like donning an Iron Man suit. It’s a game changer.
