Goodwood Festival of Speed - Green Lights and Ghosts of Yesterday

There is a special kind of magic that settles over West Sussex in the height of summer, where for one weekend, a narrow 1.17-mile ribbon of tarmac is transformed into the most revered stage in global motorsport. The Goodwood Festival of Speed is a fleeting, three-minute visceral punch—a 304-foot ascent where the analytical mind takes a back seat to pure adrenaline, and I was invited to experience it for myself as the guest of Honda motorcycles.

To ride up the Duke of Richmond's driveway is to share the asphalt with ghosts and living gods alike. This is the same hay-bale-lined gauntlet where Barry Sheene once hurled machinery toward the flint walls, grinning through his helmet. It is the hill where Peter Fonda rumbled past Goodwood House on a replica of his iconic "Captain America" Harley-Davidson chopper, and where the unmistakable shrieks of grand prix two-strokes have echoed through the ancient trees. When you slip the clutch at the start line, you are following in the tyre tracks of motorsport royalty, tracing a line through the treacherous Molecomb Corner that has caught out world champions and fearless amateurs alike. 

Riding here as a guest of Honda, I was handed the keys to two vastly different eras of motorcycling, condensed into a single day under the glaring sun. 

My morning run was on the WN7, Honda's first full-size electric naked motorcycle.

It features a liquid-cooled electric motor delivering a peak output of 50 kW, around 67 bhp and 100 Nm (73.8 lb-ft) of instant torque - that’s the headline. The 0–60 mph sprint takes just 4.6 seconds. Honda also offers an 11 kW restricted version for A1 licence holders. 

Front suspension uses non-adjustable 43 mm Showa forks, while at the rear there is a preload-adjustable-only Showa mono-shock connected to an aluminium "Pro-Arm" single-sided swingarm.

Brakes are by Nissin, with twin 296 mm discs up front, clamped by dual-piston callipers, while the rear features a single 256 mm disc with a single-piston calliper. The system is backed up by a 6-axis IMU and cornering ABS.

My first ride in the Honda WN7. Easing the electric Honda silently through the throngs of sun-drenched spectators on the way to the holding area was an emotional experience. The Goodwood air was thick with that unmistakable mid-summer festival cocktail: hot tarmac, sweet race fuel, and dry dust, all vibrating against the distant, violent crackle of hillclimb machinery echoing off the flint walls.

The WN7 is easy to ride; with only one gear, you simply twist and go, surfing on a wave of torque. The bike is sleek and narrow, and you feel immediately comfortable.

My afternoon run belonged to the new-for-2026 Honda CB1000F; a retro naked motorcycle built to evoke the golden era of 1980s muscle bikes.

Beneath its classic lines sits a 1,000cc liquid-cooled, inline four-cylinder engine that delivers a potent 122 horsepower at 9,000 rpm and 103 Nm of torque at 8,000 rpm. Honda deliberately shifted the power down the rev range to prioritise a muscular, low-to-mid-range punch and a characterful, off-beat thrum rather than screaming top-end speed. Handling that thrust is fully adjustable 41mm Showa SFF-BP inverted front forks and a Showa Pro-Link rear shock. Braking is taken care of by a pair of radial-mounted four-piston Nissin callipers, biting into twin 310mm floating front discs, helped by a six-axis IMU and cornering ABS. 

Beneath the glaring afternoon sun, the CB1000F’s evocative retro styling gleamed flawlessly. It is a masterclass in modern nostalgia that unashamedly points back to legends like the CB750F, drawing approving nods as the sea of fans parted to let us through.

Rolling down to the holding area, the intense glare and chaotic noise of the festival gave way to the cool, mottled shade of the ancient trees lining the start straight. The atmosphere shifted immediately to one of tense, focused anticipation. Sitting there, idling in the exact same dappled light where motorsport’s greatest names have waited with pounding hearts, you become acutely aware of the history beneath your tyres. The CB1000F rumbled beneath me as we waited for that single wave forward, the drop of the visor, and the flash of green.

From the start line, you launch from a dead stop under a dense canopy of trees. The initial straight is short and narrow, bordered by grassy banks and hay bales that feel uncomfortably close the moment you bury the throttle. As the trees break, you are immediately into the first turn, Park Boundary, a fast, sweeping double-right-hander. You have to carry as much speed as your nerves allow, letting the bike track out wide on the exit to set up the most public section of the hill.

This is the glory stretch, Past Goodwood House. You pin the throttle and blast past the sprawling lawns of Goodwood House. The grandstands are packed five-deep, and the sound of the Honda’s engine echoes violently off the surrounding architecture. It is a high-speed, slightly curving straight where it is dangerously easy to let your ego dictate your right wrist.

Just as you carry peak speed past the house, you’re on the brakes for Molecomb, a notorious, deceptive left-hander that is completely blind on approach and falls away off-camber. There is an extensive, highly public list of drivers who have buried priceless metal and carbon fibre deep into the hay bales here.

As you exit Molecomb, you are back on the power, plunging into the deep shade of the upper tree line, which takes a moment for your eyes to adjust when you’re wearing a dark visor. The track suddenly narrows into a claustrophobic left-right flick-flack bordered by a rigid, unyielding historic stone wall, the infamous flint wall. There is zero run-off; you are close to the flint wall, letting the Honda's front-end grip and your own timing pull you through the bottleneck.

Exiting the trees, the course opens up for one final, flat-out blast over the crest of the hill, towards the finish line and top paddock. 

You cross the finish line carrying as much speed as you dare, before finally bleeding off the momentum and rolling up into the top paddock, waiting for your heart rate to drop.

In reality, we are journalists, not professional racers, and are riding for fun, not to set records. Regardless, it is a truly special and unforgettable experience.

The contrast between my two rides, the Electric WN7 and the CB1000F, could not have been more absolute. Where the CB1000F is a love letter to the past, the WN7 is a silent assassin from the future. It strips away the familiar symphony of shifting gears and roaring exhaust, replacing it with a seamless, relentless wave of electric torque. Launching from that same historic start line, the WN7 fires you up the hill with a spaceship-like urgency that is both disorienting and utterly addictive.

You learn very little about a motorcycle’s grand-touring manners in the span of a 1.17-mile hillclimb. But what you do learn is how it makes you feel when the crowd is watching, the ghosts of Goodwood are riding on your shoulder, and the light goes green. In the CB1000F, Honda has captured the soulful, roaring essence of motorcycling's heritage; in the WN7, they have proven that the future of motorcycling will be no less thrilling.

The spectacle of the Goodwood Hillclimb is often defined by the howl of engines and the blur of priceless machinery, but the absolute lifeblood of the event stands quietly behind the hay bales. Without the marshals, the dedicated men and women in orange who brave the weather, the deafening noise, and the ever-present peril of that narrow ribbon of Sussex tarmac, the Duke’s driveway would remain just that.

There is a unique, quiet tradition that captures the unspoken bond between competitor and marshal perfectly. After the frantic, white-knuckle ascents are over, the thick tension in the top paddock gradually dissipates into a shared, breathless relief. Once the final machine has crossed the line and the hill is secured, the entire assembly makes its slow, collective procession back down to the start line.

This return run is not about speed; it is an act of pure gratitude. As the convoy snakes its way back down past the unforgiving stone of the Flint Wall, through the deceptive camber of Molecomb, and out toward the sweeping lawns of Goodwood House, every single marshal station comes alive. Stepping out from the grassy banks and the shadow of the trees, they wave to the passing grid.

From behind the wheel or beneath the visor, every competitor waves right back. It is a fleeting but deeply poignant exchange of respect, a mutual acknowledgement that whether you are gripping the controls of a screaming Honda or holding a yellow flag in the afternoon sun, you are bound together by the exact same devotion to motorsport.