It was so long ago and yet I remember it so well. My one, and only, motorcycle ride. It couldn’t have been a better experience.
I was UCD exchange student in Australia and had been living there for almost a year. During my first week of classes, I decided one good way to meet people would be to join the judo club. How much closer to others could you get than to wrestle with them twice a week? While training, I met this gorgeous guy with whom I spent hours fighting. Usually our time was spent with him throwing me around and beating me up. I, the ultra feminist, loved every moment, especially when I got him with a good throw, which happened, oh…….once…...maybe.
At the end of the semester, the students had full a week off before finals. Of course, with a whole week to study, the students tried to do anything but. The gorgeous guy called me one night and asked if I wanted to go on a motorcycle ride with him,., He only had a little dirt bike, but it was fun. What a great way to procrastinate, who wouldn’t jump at this chance? He picked me up and drove me around good ol’ Sydney. We went over the famous harbor bridge and around the opera house. We went to the beaches and watched the sun set over, well, the city (Sydney’s one fault, it’s on the east coast.). We stopped at a café, had hot chocolate, coffee, talked, and laughed. I loved it. I loved the ride, the freedom, the thrill, my arms around this guy’s waist for hours on end. What could have been better?
Afterwards, he dropped me off and we went our separate ways, me back to biochemistry. Him, who knows? For the curious, no, nothing happened between us. He was tall, lean, and dark, I was short, pudgy, and, well, white. I didn’t think anything between us was possible. In truth, I was surprised he let me hold on to him as I did. Sad to say, I never saw him again. I wish I had.
The thrill of that ride never left me. Over the years, I’ve dreamt about learning how to ride a motorcycle, but lacked courage to do so. I was always the goody two shoes - doing what I was supposed to, crying if I ever got an A-, and never (well maybe not never) participating in anything that could be considered overtly dangerous or rebellious (Sky diving and bungee jumping don’t count, I was still in another country). The thought of disappointing my dad by showing up one day on a motorcycle, freaked me out beyond all reasoning. I just couldn’t do it.
One day, nine years later, I realized something. I’m thirty. Thirty years old with a masters degree. An independent condo-owner, single with no prospects woman, and worried about what my parents would think. What in this freaking world was wrong with me? I got on-line and signed up for a motorcycle course that evening, and took the test for my permit the next week (I passed. With flying colors).
There was month and a half in between the time I signed up for the class and when it took place. I bragged to all my friends and co-workers, I was going to learn how to ride (notice how I avoided mentioning family). Some gave me that look you give a little lost child; others were all for it. One friend said that between stupid, insane, or downright crazy, she’d vote for crazy. But no one was really surprised.
All along I was thinking, how hard could this motorcycling thing be? My car is a stick shift, and I’ve driven it in San Francisco several times. My bike and I are great friends and we often go on 16-20 mile trips. This was just a combination of the two, right? Boy, did I get my comeuppance and had most humbling experience of my life.
My problems started when I couldn’t even figure out how to turn on the bike and things quickly spiraled downhill from there. From remembering what gear I was in to dropping the bike and breaking the break lever (I have a souvenir), I came no where close to understanding the mysteries of the motorcycle. Never, repeat, never in my life have I been the worst at something, but there was no question whom among the students wasn’t going to pass the driving test.
I felt like Sandra Dee pretending to be Rizzo. The image that kept popping into my head was one of that nerdy girl trying not to be. You know the one, pigtails askew, glasses that make her look like an owl, a skirt that keeps sticking to her legs, and a bulky sweater that makes her figure appear like a blob, stumbling around in stilettos, fishnets, and a sweet leather jacket. Yep, that was me, but I wasn’t just a stumbling, I was a falling. A lot. My poor little legs. The poor bike. For a while I thought apologizing to the bike would help. It didn’t.
To the horror of everyone, I began to talk about dance and how the same advice the instructors were giving me were the same my ballet teacher provides. Well, I needed to say something to convince these people I wasn’t a complete moron with no skills or talents!! Of course, talking about ballet to a bunch of people that ride sports bikes is probably going to do nothing more then convince them I am a complete an utter moron with no skills or talents, but, as we’ve already seen, my brain wasn’t working that day. Why I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, I just don’t know.
The worst part about the whole thing were the instructors. They were so patient, forgiving, helpful, and nice, they can’t be blamed for even the smallest part of my failure. If the guy fixing my bike had appeared a least a little disgruntled, I could have said it was their lack of support that pushed me into utter motorcycle hell. But noooooooooooo. He was cheerful. He whistled, gave good, understandable instructions, and cracked jokes. He tried his damnest to make me feel better. Thanks to the instructors unwavering patience, I am forced to take all the responsibility myself. How fair is that I ask? Silly people, next time they need to give me some sort of an out.
So here I am, a complete and miserable failure on the motorcycle . I left the class early so I could come back and start at the beginning another day. Discovering something this hard for me to learn has galvanized me. I am determined to figure out motorcycles if it kills me, which it almost already did. Well, okay, not quite almost. But I did end up with a nice scrape and a fairly significant bruise. To be truthful, Judo hurt me a lot more, but heck, it’s more fun to complain about a 500lb bike than the gorgeous guy.
Before this, I wasn’t sure I wanted to buy a bike. Now I am figuring out how to fit it into my budget. I am returning to the school, I am going to ride, and I am going to be good. HAHAHAHAHAHA. Don’t mess with me, because I will, um, well, just, er, you know, practice a lot. Yea, that’ll show them. I am woman, hear me roar. :-)
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