The only V-Max I've ever ridden belonged to this lady I know from Augusta Georgia. She's arguably one of the most skilled riders I have ever met. A fulltimer, she's always got 2-4 bikes - right now she's got a 1200 Bandit, a older 750 Intercepter, an 80's Connie with a bazillion miles on it, and perhaps a 750 nighthawk. She's an excellent wrencher too, and does all of her own work.
Anyhoo, one day while touring in her neck of the woods, she says "Hey Pants, wanna ride Pinky?"
Picture a early 90's V-max painted hot pink. With rear sets, drag bars, a handful of unknown engine upgrades, and some kind of unbelievably loud aftermarket exhaust.
Oh what the hell. I'll try just about anything once.
I liken the experience to sitting on top of a Cruise Missle with some kind of special fuse routed to my right wrist. The rocket is laying horizontally. After one final check on the target WAY down the road, on my command (and hopefully I am ready for it), my right wrist lights the fuse and the missile and I go soaring down the pavement hoping that the war gods have chosen to keep the battlefield clear for the next 5-10 seconds. I find myself incredibly thankful that this missile comes with the optional seat that has a definite lower shelf which is tastefully designed to keep my fat ass from flying right off the back of this thing. I assume a condensation trail is following me diligently, but I don't dare take my eyes off the target for even a split second. The afterburners are fully lit and must be glowing red because there is this indescribable heat that I can feel in my groin area. The beast is howling a noise well above my ear plugs that I can only compare to some kind of beautiful pit stall symphony. Finally, the view ahead of me is slightly blurred as my helmet is vibrating profusely from the g-forces that I am experiencing.
Thankfully, the launch ends as planned and I am returned to a more civilized mode of transportation. You only live once, but in that particular case, once was definitely enough.