I am, admittedly, the
wimpiest motorcyclist on the road. My
motorcycle career started fairly recently, about four years ago, although my
love of motorcycle’s started very young, back in the early 70s when I rode on
the back of my dad’s mini-bike, without a helmet and barely able to hold on
with my little skinny child arms. It was
awesome. From that point on I knew I
wanted to ride motorcycles. In my early
20s, while considering the qualities I would like to have in a spouse, “rides a
motorcycle” was at the top of the list, closely followed by “plays
guitar.” Older, wiser, and in my late
20s, I married my husband who neither had a motorcycle nor played the
guitar. He not only did not own a
motorcycle, but was adamant against owning one, referring to them as “donor
cycles,” as in “organ donor.” So I put
my dreams of flying down the highway on the back of my husband’s Harley on
indefinite hold.
Imagine my surprise when
several years later, during what I later referred to as my husband’s midlife
crisis, he said that he wanted to buy a motorcycle. What?
I was shocked. Then I considered
and told him, “OK, but I want one too.”
So began my solo motorcycle riding career. I started researching motorcycles for women. While my husband found a bright orange, huge
and brand new motorcycle, I found a used, good condition, small and low to the
ground white Suzuki. It was the original
owner’s “beginner bike” that she parted with only because she upgraded to a
bigger Harley. I knew she still loved
the Suzuki, and she watched us wistfully as we purchased it and drove away (my
husband on the Suzuki while I drove the car).
Now I was the official owner
of my own motorcycle. Woo-hoo! I just needed to learn how to ride the
thing. I had a friend at work that
agreed to teach me. I made her and her
husband swear to secrecy as I showed up for my first lesson. She was already chain smoking when I arrived. I put the helmet on, sat on the bike,
listened to her instructions given with shaky hands lighting another cigarette,
and then I peeled out. If I had known
how hard it was going to be to learn to ride I would have asked for one of her
cigarettes, and I’ve never smoked. Her
husband joined in on the lesson. They
decided it would be best if I sat on the front and he sat behind and showed me
what to do. I put my hands on his hands,
like a little kid, and learned how to clutch, shift, accelerate, and brake. It was terrifying and exhilarating. Then I did it by myself and rode circle after
circle around their big backyard, until I stalled the bike and fell over
sideways while unsuccessfully trying to keep my balance. The bike wouldn’t start up again. Lesson over.
But it was still one of the most exciting days of my life.
My husband and I decided to
sign up for a motorcycle safety course.
It promised to teach me not only how to ride, but if I passed, I would
have my motorcycle license at the end of the class. I decided it would be a good idea to put in a
little practice time before the class started.
My husband drove my bike to a nearby parking lot and I continued my
lessons. I convinced him to sit on the
back while I sat on the front, like in my previous lesson, so I could get the
feel for using the clutch. We tried this
method for a little while then saw a police car approach. The officer rolled down his window and said
our teaching method was illegal. I told him
I was learning how to shift. He was nice
but basically said “lesson over.” We
went home and now I was feeling even cooler.
I got pulled over by a policeman on my motorcycle! Woo-hoo!
I was BAD.
Next lesson: Back at the
empty lot. I told my husband I wanted to
get in some more practice time before our class. I was planning on discretely riding around
the lot to gain experience with shifting and turning corners. My son found out. He told his friends. A little gang of teenage boys showed up to
watch my lesson; so much for discreet.
Every time I rode down the lot they cheered, laughed, poked each other
and smiled. “Glad I can be their source
of entertainment” I thought as I glared at my husband who was clearly enjoying
the situation. Then I fell trying to go
around a corner. I was driving so slowly
that the fall was no real safety threat, but the whole gang of boys descended
on me, righted my bike, and then righted me.
“OK, maybe they aren’t so bad,” I thought.
A few months later Dave and I
completed our motorcycle safety class. I
now had my license! I took the
instructors advice and bought the brightest motorcycle jacket I could find so
that I would stand out to other motorists, visibility was important. My jacket was a dazzling pink. I went for my first solo ride. I drove slowly, my top speed reaching about
35-45 mph. I stalled at two different
intersections, holding up lines of traffic.
I started to rethink my jacket color.
I was not incognito. In my small
hometown people would begin to recognize the girl on the little white
motorcycle, plodding along, periodically stalling, and wearing the bright pink
jacket. These thoughts did not deter
me. I knew I was the wimpiest motorcycle
rider on the road, and yet, I loved it.
It was awesome!
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