CB750 Hornet (RH12)

The Hornet shrinks around you the moment you're rolling. A single input drops it into a bend, and through a run of quick esses it swaps direction with barely any weight on the bars. Whatever line I asked for, it held, no drift, no correcting halfway through. There's more room to lean than its easygoing nature suggests, so I kept finding another inch of angle before anything touched down. It stays grown-up on faster roads too, sitting steady through long sweepers and shrugging off heavy braking without stepping out of shape. Two honest gaps kept me from full trust. The fork stays tight-lipped about the front contact patch, and I felt that silence most trailing the brake deep toward an apex, right when I wanted a report. Adjustment runs out fast as well: rear preload is the only setting on offer, so the stock tune has to answer for load and pace it was never dialed for.

Build quality is a quiet strength almost everywhere you look. Panels fit, the finishes hold up, and the whole thing feels put together to a standard above what you pay for it. Then your eye lands on the swingarm and the illusion cracks. It's bland, off-the-shelf stuff, visibly a rung below the parts around it, as if nobody gave it the same care. It won't leave you stranded. It just looks like it wandered in from a cheaper motorcycle every time you catch sight of it.

This is the balancing act I care about most, and the Hornet nails it. From the opening bend it asks nothing of you, staying light and honest, never a machine you have to muscle or tiptoe around. Then the twin and the chassis muster enough bite to send you home wearing a grin you didn't plan on. Making a bike this easygoing and this genuinely rewarding is a tightrope most manufacturers wobble off of. Honda walked it without a stumble.

No complaints up front, and that counts for a lot on a bike this eager. The lever meters cleanly, so I could ease pressure in and hold it toward the corner, or bite down late and the bike answered exactly as I expected each time. There's real muscle in the front stopper when you reach for it, and the rear pulls its weight quietly behind it. Predictable is the word I kept landing on.

The clutch is the comfort story I'd lead with. It costs almost nothing at the lever, which spares your left hand on a crawling commute, and the slipper stays composed under hard downchanges with no snatch through the driveline. The seat is where the goodwill runs thin. It's fine for a hop across town, but the foam collapses after an hour or two and drops you onto the pan. The cockpit also carries a small-framed feel taller riders won't stretch into as the miles pile up.

Low-end grunt is the twin's whole personality, and it never taxes your right wrist to find it. I could short-shift and let torque do the work, or hold a gear and lean on the pull, and the fueling stayed clean either way. Cracking the throttle while banked over gave me drive I could dole out precisely, no lurch, no dead spot before it took hold. Trimming speed on a closed throttle mid-bend never jolted the chassis either, the engine braking blends in that smoothly. The box backs it up with shifts that snick home tight and repeatable every time.

Two things nagged at me here, both about living with the electronics rather than riding. The display takes patience to learn. A given button doesn't always do what you'd bet it would, and there's a genuine settling-in period before you stop hunting through menus. The bigger gap is power. The bike pairs with your phone, yet gives it nothing to drink from, so on a full day of navigation you're watching the battery drain with no way to top it up in the saddle.