Where the Rubber Meets the Road

This weekend is going to stay in my memory until I die. (In the style of Douglas Adams, I will, for the sake of reducing your stress, reveal that my injuries are superficial. However, for the sake of maintaining a bit of suspense, I will not yet reveal where I was wounded.)

I should have known there would be trouble when, at the top of the first piece of paper handed out during the classroom instruction portion of the motorcycle safety course, the first statement said, "It is a prerequisite of this course that the participant is able to ride a bicycle." Yep, I should have walked out right then (and asked for my registration fee back, since they didn't mention it at all on the web registration page). You'd think the second form (promising that my heirs wouldn't sue) should have told me something, too. But no, I convinced myself that I think too much and that I didn't need to worry; I was just nervous.

The course was taught by two people. The first had to drive back to El Paso (and still be back in Las Cruces to prepare for the next day's 7 a.m. start time). The second (an off-duty Las Cruces police officer) kept us 45 minutes late (which made it 1 hr. 45 min. after my usual bedtime) because he allowed a bunch of "what if" questions and "this happened to someone I know" comments. The most confusing part for me involved the clutch and throttle and... Well, some other words I can't remember now because I know nothing about engines and because my car, even though it is far bigger, is much simpler to operate than a motorcycle.

Here's an interesting note: of the ten students, only three of us (Gym Rat, another student, and I) had absolutely no experience with motorcycles. Two students had been riding for years; one of them took the class only because he works at the White Sands Test Facility, and the government now says he needs to be certified before his motorcycle will be allowed on the site.

We didn't take the test on the classroom section until Saturday morning, at the driving instruction site. I didn't see what questions I answered incorrectly, or even learn my score. All the instructor said was that we all passed. (Whew!)

Why did I sign up for this? The answer is what you get when you cross and elephant and a rhinoceros: elephino. I have no burning desire (not even a pilot light) to ride a motorcycle. (It was Gym Rat's idea, which sounded almost fun at the time he talked me into it.) I can't ride a bicycle, a far simpler, wheeled, transportation device. (Maybe I thought motorcycles would be easier because the tires are wider.) On the brighter side, even though I was nervous and worried, there wasn't any fear in me. That kept me going for as long as I did.

The first step was to look at our assigned motorcycle (they actually had one for each of us; this was my model, as well as Gym Rat's) and locate where the controls were. The second was to practice mounting and dismounting the motorcycle. So far, so good. (If the weekend proceeded at that rate, I should be okay.) I even managed to start the motorcycle and shift it into neutral.

The Incident (note the capitalization and the use of "the definite article") happened during the next lesson. We shifted into first but stayed sitting on the motorcycles. At some point, I forgot about the clutch and the gear and those other words I can't remember, and I relaxed my grip. (I'm still confused about the clutch being "engaged" and "disengaged", and for simplicity's sake, let's just say I let go.) The result was an acceleration and movement in the forward direction. As a result of my inexperience and (let's admit it) panic, I had no idea how to stop. I didn't even think of squeezing the brake lever -- although running in to the man and his motorcycle in front of me seemed to do the trick by knocking me over. (Don't worry; he wasn't hurt at all, although I might have caused that small tear in the back of his shirt.) Both instructors hurried over and said, "Don't move." No problem there!

So, the class got an unexpected break (and a demonstration of one of the classroom instructions: "The clutch is your best friend.") as I picked myself up, received a quite reassuring talk from both instructors that it could have happened to anyone and that I was now light years ahead of most motorcyclists because I know what it's like to fall (that part wasn't quite as reassuring as they intended), took stock of any injuries, and tried to make sense of my muddled thoughts so the instructor could fill out the accident form. (Since he's a cop, I figure he's used to taking reports on accidents involving confused, worried, panicked -- and yes, he even asked me how to spell that word -- people.)

It felt like rug burn ("abrasions" was the word on the form) on both knees and, for some unknown reason yet to be explained, on the lower part of my left calf, but my jeans were not torn. (I didn't want to wear my good jeans, but the form also said that ripped jeans would not be allowed, so I couldn't wear my work jeans.) My right knee already looks healed, but it's a little tender yet. My left knee and calf have some pretty severe looking scrapes that I expect will be there for at least a week.

After a minute or two, I was calm enough to walk around the machine and see if I had damaged it. Yes, indeed, that orange plastic square back there on the ground was part of the left turn signal, and one of the instructors was bending the gear shift back to a usable position. (You mean I might have to know how to fix one of these things, too? That's exactly why I have AAA for my car and why mechanics have steady employment.) Plus, there were a couple dents in the fuel tank (one of them looked as bad as my leg), but no gas leaked out. Hey, no, those tiny dents in the front thingy over the wheel (the fender?) were already there; see the rust?

Through it all, I still wasn't afraid. I got back on the motorcycle and continued with the lesson. Go me. (Go figure.)

Next was to slowly release the clutch lever until we felt the "friction zone" when the engine would start to move the motorcycle forward, then clasp the lever again to stop the movement, then rock back to our starting point. (My friction zone was on my knees and below, but I'm sure that's not what the instructors meant.) After that, we "walked" our motorcycles in neutral to the area where we were to walk our cycles in first gear to the far end of the parking lot then ride them back to our starting points. The walking in gear was fine, other than still being unfamiliar with the amount of grip I needed on the lever. Riding back, however, was, for me, impossible. I did not trust the motorcycle (or, perhaps, my control of the motorcycle) to carry me safely, and I kept trying to drop my feet from the "footpegs" to the ground to stabilize myself. Plus, the instructor noted that I kept pushing to the left, in an odd attempt to find my balance.

He pulled me off to the side for some individual practice, which had the same results, and then he asked the fateful question, "When was the last time you rode a bicycle?" It was a direct question, "and, as I am an honest Puck," (Yakko Warner), I told him the truth, that I had never ridden a bicycle.

The instructor's look of realization (that his instinct about my balance issue was right on) and surprise (that I never learned to ride a bicycle yet signed up for this motorcycle class) was almost amusing.

I agreed with him that it would be better (and safer -- for both me and the rest of the class) for me to walk away right then. Still, I had no fear. Still worried, still nervous, now with the added fretting about having wasted my money for the course (although there's the possibility of me re-enrolling at no additional, or maybe a reduced, charge, but definitely would be prioritized to the first available opening), the embarrassment of wrecking the motorcycle (okay, yeah, it still worked with minor injuries, much like myself, but I did crash it), the embarrassment of never riding a bicycle (which was such a basic assumption that they didn't actually state it anywhere except one sentence on a piece of paper), and the shame of driving away from a group of people who could perform basic motor skills and who were probably watching me drive off rather than listening to the instructors.

The instructor said that I most definitely should learn to ride a bicycle and, in two or three weeks, I'd be ready to try the motorcycle course again. (Two to three weeks? It will take me that long just to choose a bicycle, let alone learn how to ride it.)

Gym Rat offered some consoling words before I departed -- but I noticed that he didn't offer to lend me his bicycle. I suspect that wrecking the motorcycle might have put him off the idea. (Wouldn't you feel the same way after watching me crash and burn?) He told me of a bicycle store of which I was unaware, and he knew which street it's on, but couldn't tell me where (Missouri Ave. is a long street that passes through the entire west half of town). His closest landmark was that it's in the same shopping center as a bar whose name he couldn't remember (which is okay by me, because the only times I've been to any of the bars in town was back in college, and they've all closed since then, so I don't know where any bars are any more).

I went home, realized that I didn't have any eggs for a late, second breakfast (I left the class less than two hours after it started), and had half a protein bar as I perused the yellow pages. I was delighted to discover that there now are three bicycle stores in town (two more than I thought). I decided to go to two of them right then and save the third for after a late lunch at Tiffany's, a Greek restaurant near the bike store. I figured that treating myself to gyros would be a suitable comfort food after The Incident. Plus, even though I wanted to hide in my condo the rest of the day, I would truly earn it if I faced the world and learned about yet another new (to me) mode of transport.

The first store (Outdoor Adventures) was very well stocked, and the guy behind the counter was very helpful (although I had to clarify for him that "complete beginner" means that I had never ridden a bicycle). Plus, he suggested the name of someone who teaches people how to ride bicycles. I'm also going to e-mail one of the guys I know from the BPAC. (Yeah, I'm on a bicycle advisory committee for crying out loud, and I didn't even think of asking any of them. That earns me a big smack on the forehead accompanied by a loud "Duh!") This store was the one Gym Rat told me about. I saw a grocery store in the same shopping center, a Baskin Robbins, two pizza franchises, a video rental store, and something called Wing Stop, which appears to be as popular with law enforcement officials as a donut store -- but no bar.

The second store (Chain-Driven Bikes) wasn't as helpful (and I had to redefine "beginner" here, too), but I understand that it was very small and the owner was trying to fix a bicycle and keep an eye on his son and his wife was someplace else and they couldn't find the key to the lock so he couldn't even show me a bike.... (I have no idea why those two kids in matching shirts were sitting at the counter, but at least they weren't getting in the way.)

Ride-on Sports, the third store (I'm skipping a bit of the chronology for the moment, just to keep similar subject matter together, but I'll get back to what I've missed) was also large and well-stocked, but the person who assisted me was a hyperactive college student who was stuck in the mindset that everyone else already knows as much about bikes as he does, so telling him that "absolute beginner" means no bicycle experience whatsoever was crucial. (Is there a better word for me to use than "beginner"? I haven't thought of one yet.)

On the brighter side, no one tried to sell me an expensive model that wouldn't fit my needs. Keep in mind that the one time I attempted to learn how to ride a bike was over thirty years ago, and bicycles consisted of one speed (as fast as you wanted to pedal) and braking was accomplished by pushing backward on the pedals. Stores now stock 7-speed, 10-speed, and 24-speed bikes with multiple gears and hand-controlled disc brakes or v-brakes and suspension and are designed for roads or for mountains or for trails and... I thought bicycles were supposed to be simpler than motorycles! The hyper college kid was ratcheting through gears so fast that his hand was a blur. At least they make bicycles for different sizes of people (although each of the three assistants suggested a different size bike for my 6'3", long-legged frame).

I was quite shocked by bicycle prices. All three stores recommended I go for a hybrid bicycle, a cross between a road bike and a mountain bike. I have a choice of a Trek 7000-series for $420, a Schwinn Voyageur 7 (I've heard of Schwinn) for $265, or a Raleigh Mojave for $260. What about the bikes I see in the ads from Target, K-Mart, or Wal-Mart, all for less than $100? (Lower quality of parts, lower overall quality, and higher weight, for the most part.) And that's before all the add-ons, such as lights and kickstand and lock and basket or cargo rack and a helmet, not to mention the rack I'd have to hook to the trunk of my car to take the bicycle to some place (grassy and soft) where I can learn to ride it. On the brighter side (isn't it nice there are several in this story?), I don't need one of the competitive road bikes, which exceed $3,000!

Between visiting the second and third stores, I looked online at bicycles. I ended up just as confused by the possibilities and terminology as I was when I started. I did learn that there are more brands and types of bicycles than I can count.

In the afternoon, when I backed up my car to head for the third store and my special lunch, it felt as if I was dragging my front license plate holder over a concrete port-a-curb, which I have done before -- except we don't have port-a-curbs in our parking lot. Then the car didn't want to go forward either. I shut off the engine, got out of the car, and -- wouldn't you know it? -- I had a flat tire (driver's side, front). The brighter side (yay!) was that I was in my home parking lot and not alongside a busy road someplace.

The asphalt nearly burned my, well, asphalt, when I sat down, and the tires and the jack were hot, and the jack was very unwieldy, but I managed to remove the flat tire, mount the "donut" spare tire, and put the flat in the trunk. (Neither wheel seemed heavy, but I think I strained my right triceps because it was sore yesterday morning and again today.) I grabbed my credit card and drove over to the tire store (which, conveniently, is within walking distance of Tiffany's and the third bike store).

The assistant said it would take about an hour for them to replace the tire, which left plenty of time to savor my gyros (yes, Betty, I had a book to read while I ate) and consult at the bike store. However, my day was again thwarted. I walked (uphill) to the restaurant and saw a large "closed" sign in the window. (If you believe things happen in threes, does this count as the third, or am I still waiting for another incident -- or Incident -- involving a wheeled, motorized vehicle?) I headed to the last bike store then returned to the tire store with the minor consolation that the car was ready just 45 minutes after I left. I was in such a mood, though, that I forgot my lunch-plan B, which was to stop and get a red chili-meat burrito from Roberto's on the way home. I settled on popcorn, Dr. Pepper, and an ice cream sandwich as my comfort food once I got home.

So, what with The Incident and the flat tire and the closed restaurant, you'll understand perfectly well that I told the world to f--- off and shut myself inside the rest of the weekend.

Still and all, I am striving not to think negatively about the weekend. It was a learning process. I wasn't (and am not) afraid. I wasn't badly injured. The motorcycle wasn't badly injured. The other student and his motorcycle weren't injured at all. I have a new learning opportunity. I had freed up enough time to read two books. I can go back and try the course again, and I probably will -- at the very least, to get my money's worth, or maybe just so I don't feel as if I'm chickening out. (I'm not sure if that's non-negative enough, but let's try it.)