# data.attributes.title
Royal Enfield Himalayan - long-term review - Report No:3

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Learning to slide a motorbike is terrifying and addictive

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We take our long-term Himalayan to Royal Enfield’s Slide School and try not to end up in A&E

# data.attributes.field_sub_title
Learning to slide a motorbike is terrifying and addictive

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Royal Enfield Himalayan - long-term review - Report No:3 | Top Gear

# data.attributes.metatag[].attributes.content
We take our long-term Himalayan to Royal Enfield’s Slide School and try not to end up in A&E

# data.attributes.metatag[].attributes.content
Royal Enfield Himalayan - long-term review - Report No:3

# data.attributes.metatag[].attributes.content
We take our long-term Himalayan to Royal Enfield’s Slide School and try not to end up in A&E

# data.attributes.metatag[].attributes.content
Royal Enfield Himalayan - long-term review - Report No:3

# data.attributes.metatag[].attributes.content
We take our long-term Himalayan to Royal Enfield’s Slide School and try not to end up in A&E

# data.attributes.body.value
We all know that skidding cars around is fun – that’s why Instagram is full of cars going sideways in clouds of tyre smoke. Not only does it look epic, there’s an inherent respect to it – a delicate balance of throttle, steering angle and bravery that says something about driving on the limit. But what’s cooler than seeing a car go sideways? A bike. Because a bike can fall over. Which adds a pleasing extra layer of jeopardy. Something I was keen to explore, my wife rather less so.

So I took our long-term Himalayan to Royal Enfield’s Slide School, an introduction to the world of flat track – possibly the best motorsport you’ve never heard of, and certainly one of the least sensible things you can do on two wheels.

Flat track consists of three noes – no nonsense, no right turns, no brakes. It’s an oval of dirt and the world’s most entertaining argument with physics. If you don’t know much about it, that’s not your fault – it’s largely an American sport, with a small, grassroots following in Britain that happens quietly behind hedges on remote, dusty oval tracks with run-down portacabins and crumbling grandstands. Which is exactly why, on an insufferably hot day, I found myself in Iwade – a strange atoll no one really knows on the Kent–Essex border.

I arrived, said a brief prayer for my collarbones, and met the saintly menace that is Gary Birtwistle – flat-track champion, professional enabler, and the only man who can say “don’t worry, it’s fine”, while smiling and handing you a motorcycle with no front brake on loose dirt.

Now, a bike going sideways competitively on dirt – you’re probably thinking speedway. And fair enough. The two look similar, but they differ in scale and spirit. Speedway is raced on short, tight ovals with brutally simple bikes – single gear, no brakes, methanol-fuelled – and the racing is a four-lap, winner-takes-all sprint where the start matters more than anything else. Flat track, by contrast, runs on a wider variety of ovals, from short tracks to mile-long circuits, uses more conventional motorcycles with gears and rear brakes, and rewards rhythm, racecraft and patience over longer races. Speedway is raw, explosive and uncompromising. Flat track is broader, more nuanced and, somehow, even more unsettling.

There’s also a ritual. You’re given a steel shoe – a polished, welded, industrial-looking Cinderella slipper that straps to your left boot so you can place your foot down, let the bike hang out and skate your way round the turns. At least, that’s how Gary does it. I mostly use mine to stop myself toppling over.

The bike I’d be learning on was Royal Enfield’s new FT450. A stock bike, but stripped of clutter and designed to take a beating. Big 19in tyres, no mirrors, bars wide enough to dry a bedsheet on, and crucially, no front brake lever. You don’t slow down with your fingers here – you slow down with engine braking, a whisper of rear brake, and commitment. Mostly commitment. Which is in short supply when confidence is low and everything feels wrong.

On paper, going in a circle while flat tracking sounds easy. In reality, there are lines to follow, apexes to hit and strategy in how and when to brake and apply power. It’s like NASCAR – simple to explain, difficult to master. Except this is far more daunting than being in a car with four wheels and a roll cage. Here you have the air… and then the ground.

Like at the off-road school I recently visited, Slide School requires you to unlearn everything that keeps you alive on the road. We start with gentle, slow-speed laps, purely to get used to not grabbing a front brake in a moment of blind panic. Then we weave through cones, and before you know it things escalate. Which means learning to ride all over again.

On the road, you sit on a bike. Flat trackers perch on them. You slide your backside forward, elbows up, chest open, and create a sort of human star – upper body stable, one leg out, and the bike drifting sideways underneath your crotch. With the bike leaned over, you twizzle the throttle with your fingers, not your wrist. Head turned to the exit, eyes up, looking where you want to go. Target fixation is very real – look at the wall and you’ll hit it, because your eyes are effectively a steering wheel. Which I find mildly amusing as someone demonstrates this theory on the inflatable barriers. Gary, of course, makes it all look hopelessly easy.

At first, I feel my way around the track – coast in, pick up the throttle, roll out. The FT450’s single thumps away gamely, chuntering out what torque it can muster. But to really get the bike to turn, you have to come off the power and let the engine pitch the bike forward. Then comes the witchcraft – you ask the rear to misbehave. A little pre-load in the chassis, a brush of rotation, and then you catch the newborn slide with the lightest smear of throttle. No drama, no motocross roost, just the strange sensation of the rear stepping politely sideways.

It’s alien and quietly terrifying as you feel the weight of the bike resting on your left leg. Too much throttle and you spin out. Too little, or a moment’s hesitation, and the bike stands up and runs wide. It’s delicate, awkward and entirely confidence-driven.

Once that confidence arrives, you have to really commit to unlock the rest – and real speed – backing it in. On paper it’s simple – arrive straight, ease off, let the back go light, introduce a hint of yaw before the apex, then ride that angle through the corner. In reality, it feels like an act of exhilarating treason. Your lizard brain insists that corners are for slowing down. Gary, maddeningly calm, waves a hand: “more rotation, more eyes up, more elbow up. Relax your inside arm.” Basically, more everything.

You obey and suddenly the bike does exactly what he said it would. It feels like your first proper drift in a car – a small miracle you’re desperate to repeat. But like skidding a car, finesse is everything. And that’s where the left foot comes in. The steel shoe isn’t for heroics – it’s a stabiliser and a feeler gauge. You don’t stamp it down; you let it glide. Though the sound of metal scraping across dusty dirt never quite stops being weird.

As the day goes on, confidence builds and you want more time, more speed, more angle. You feel fast because you’re sideways, though the actual speed is lower than the road. Then Gary goes out on his Royal Enfield flat-track race bike, on the limiter, basically lying on its side, four feet off it at once, while it spits flames. Perspective is restored.

So impressed was I that I handed Gary the keys to our Himalayan to see if he could get that sideways too. Which he could. Easily. Even with a full set of panniers on the back.

And the best bit? You can sign up for Slide School too. It doesn’t matter if you’re a complete rookie or have off-road experience – they’ll take novices to pros. Everyone learns something. Everyone scares themselves at least once. And that, as it turns out, is a pretty good way of feeling alive.

# data.attributes.body.processed
We all know that skidding cars around is fun – that’s why Instagram is full of cars going sideways in clouds of tyre smoke. Not only does it look epic, there’s an inherent respect to it – a delicate balance of throttle, steering angle and bravery that says something about driving on the limit. But what’s cooler than seeing a car go sideways? A bike. Because a bike can fall over. Which adds a pleasing extra layer of jeopardy. Something I was keen to explore, my wife rather less so.

So I took our long-term Himalayan to Royal Enfield’s Slide School, an introduction to the world of flat track – possibly the best motorsport you’ve never heard of, and certainly one of the least sensible things you can do on two wheels.

Flat track consists of three noes – no nonsense, no right turns, no brakes. It’s an oval of dirt and the world’s most entertaining argument with physics. If you don’t know much about it, that’s not your fault – it’s largely an American sport, with a small, grassroots following in Britain that happens quietly behind hedges on remote, dusty oval tracks with run-down portacabins and crumbling grandstands. Which is exactly why, on an insufferably hot day, I found myself in Iwade – a strange atoll no one really knows on the Kent–Essex border.

I arrived, said a brief prayer for my collarbones, and met the saintly menace that is Gary Birtwistle – flat-track champion, professional enabler, and the only man who can say “don’t worry, it’s fine”, while smiling and handing you a motorcycle with no front brake on loose dirt.

Now, a bike going sideways competitively on dirt – you’re probably thinking speedway. And fair enough. The two look similar, but they differ in scale and spirit. Speedway is raced on short, tight ovals with brutally simple bikes – single gear, no brakes, methanol-fuelled – and the racing is a four-lap, winner-takes-all sprint where the start matters more than anything else. Flat track, by contrast, runs on a wider variety of ovals, from short tracks to mile-long circuits, uses more conventional motorcycles with gears and rear brakes, and rewards rhythm, racecraft and patience over longer races. Speedway is raw, explosive and uncompromising. Flat track is broader, more nuanced and, somehow, even more unsettling.

There’s also a ritual. You’re given a steel shoe – a polished, welded, industrial-looking Cinderella slipper that straps to your left boot so you can place your foot down, let the bike hang out and skate your way round the turns. At least, that’s how Gary does it. I mostly use mine to stop myself toppling over.

The bike I’d be learning on was Royal Enfield’s new FT450. A stock bike, but stripped of clutter and designed to take a beating. Big 19in tyres, no mirrors, bars wide enough to dry a bedsheet on, and crucially, no front brake lever. You don’t slow down with your fingers here – you slow down with engine braking, a whisper of rear brake, and commitment. Mostly commitment. Which is in short supply when confidence is low and everything feels wrong.

On paper, going in a circle while flat tracking sounds easy. In reality, there are lines to follow, apexes to hit and strategy in how and when to brake and apply power. It’s like NASCAR – simple to explain, difficult to master. Except this is far more daunting than being in a car with four wheels and a roll cage. Here you have the air… and then the ground.

Like at the off-road school I recently visited, Slide School requires you to unlearn everything that keeps you alive on the road. We start with gentle, slow-speed laps, purely to get used to not grabbing a front brake in a moment of blind panic. Then we weave through cones, and before you know it things escalate. Which means learning to ride all over again.

On the road, you sit on a bike. Flat trackers perch on them. You slide your backside forward, elbows up, chest open, and create a sort of human star – upper body stable, one leg out, and the bike drifting sideways underneath your crotch. With the bike leaned over, you twizzle the throttle with your fingers, not your wrist. Head turned to the exit, eyes up, looking where you want to go. Target fixation is very real – look at the wall and you’ll hit it, because your eyes are effectively a steering wheel. Which I find mildly amusing as someone demonstrates this theory on the inflatable barriers. Gary, of course, makes it all look hopelessly easy.

At first, I feel my way around the track – coast in, pick up the throttle, roll out. The FT450’s single thumps away gamely, chuntering out what torque it can muster. But to really get the bike to turn, you have to come off the power and let the engine pitch the bike forward. Then comes the witchcraft – you ask the rear to misbehave. A little pre-load in the chassis, a brush of rotation, and then you catch the newborn slide with the lightest smear of throttle. No drama, no motocross roost, just the strange sensation of the rear stepping politely sideways.

It’s alien and quietly terrifying as you feel the weight of the bike resting on your left leg. Too much throttle and you spin out. Too little, or a moment’s hesitation, and the bike stands up and runs wide. It’s delicate, awkward and entirely confidence-driven.

Once that confidence arrives, you have to really commit to unlock the rest – and real speed – backing it in. On paper it’s simple – arrive straight, ease off, let the back go light, introduce a hint of yaw before the apex, then ride that angle through the corner. In reality, it feels like an act of exhilarating treason. Your lizard brain insists that corners are for slowing down. Gary, maddeningly calm, waves a hand: “more rotation, more eyes up, more elbow up. Relax your inside arm.” Basically, more everything.

You obey and suddenly the bike does exactly what he said it would. It feels like your first proper drift in a car – a small miracle you’re desperate to repeat. But like skidding a car, finesse is everything. And that’s where the left foot comes in. The steel shoe isn’t for heroics – it’s a stabiliser and a feeler gauge. You don’t stamp it down; you let it glide. Though the sound of metal scraping across dusty dirt never quite stops being weird.

As the day goes on, confidence builds and you want more time, more speed, more angle. You feel fast because you’re sideways, though the actual speed is lower than the road. Then Gary goes out on his Royal Enfield flat-track race bike, on the limiter, basically lying on its side, four feet off it at once, while it spits flames. Perspective is restored.

So impressed was I that I handed Gary the keys to our Himalayan to see if he could get that sideways too. Which he could. Easily. Even with a full set of panniers on the back.

And the best bit? You can sign up for Slide School too. It doesn’t matter if you’re a complete rookie or have off-road experience – they’ll take novices to pros. Everyone learns something. Everyone scares themselves at least once. And that, as it turns out, is a pretty good way of feeling alive.