The Lesson of Lessons

Early in my 40s, inspired by the acquisition of a Kawasaki Ninja, I decided to take a motorcycle racing course. I thought this would be a prudent preamble to racing. I did not give much thought to the wisdom of taking up the sport at this stage of life.

I spoke with someone at the school who asked me if had had ever taken the Motorcycle Safety Foundation (MSF) fundamentals course. I indignantly replied that I had almost twenty years of riding experience. He somehow suppressed his awe. We went back and forth a little bit and he managed to talk me into taking the MSF course first.

The course was conducted on the grounds of a vocational school (what we used to call a "trades school"). It spanned two full weekends and had a final exam. I showed up an a cold and rainy spring evening for the orientation.

About fifteen students ambled into the room, mostly young and cocky. There were only two others who approached my age. The youngsters gabbled excitedly about hot sport bikes, a.k.a. crotch rockets.

The instructors strode in exactly at the appointed time and the lead welcomed us. Jack was a grizzled 50, but straight and hard as a ramrod. He had a handlebar mustache and Elvis do, both whitened by the years. The welcome was a no-nonsense recitation of rules and expectations. The kid next to me caught my eye and smirked, but I gave no reaction. Had a feeling that it didn't pay to get on Jack's bad side.

Jack had us go around the room and provide brief bios with riding experience. The smirker said he raced bicycles and expected to ace this course. He was taking it just for the insurance discount. Jack's turn to smirk.

Jack and his younger assistant took turns covering the basics of motorcycle control and maneuvers. A couple stragglers came in late and Jack shot them reproachful looks.

The first subject was turning. I stifled a yawn. I thought, lean to the side you want to go; next subject, please.

But no, Jack said you turn the handle bar, and turn the opposite way you would to steer a tricycle. What? That's crazy. He explained that a motorcycle countersteers, so you push on the grip that's on the side you want to go. Using the bars enabled you to steer quicker and set a precise line. I wasn't sure I believed it, but I dimly perceived that there may be more to this than I thought. The next subject was how to stop. I leaned forward to absorb new insights and was not disappointed.

There were more revelations throughout the evening. Jack wrapped up, admonishing us to be on time for the field drills in the parking lot the following morning. One of the youngsters asked if we would do them if it was still raining.

Jack assumed a wolfish grin and licked his lips. He obviously lived for questions like this. "You're riding across the middle of Kansas and it starts to rain. Do you park it and thumb home? Be on time tomorrow!"

The morning was cold with a light rain. I drove my car to the course. We had a short briefing inside and then went to the parking lot. They supplied our steeds, 350cc dual purpose bikes. Light and agile. Cones and other objects were arranged around the large lot.

We started with turns, stops and starts. Prior to the previous evening, I would've considered this too prosaic. But, it took some iterations to program the proper technique.

Then, we advanced to some combinations. The hotshot bike racer went down in a serpentine drill. After ascertaining he was okay, the instructors exchanged smiles behind his back.

They worked us hard that day and the next. The following Friday night, we learned emergency maneuvers. Like, if a deer cuts in your path or something falls off the truck in front of you. It was interesting, but I was thinking that rain was forecast for the next day. Nice timing.

The morning was cold and rainy. I rode my Harley anyway. What if I had been in the middle of Kansas? We lined up in the lot and fired up our steeds. The first drill was for riding over unavoidable obstacles.

A wooden beam was in the path. You were supposed to approach it at good speed, get up on the pegs, pull up on the bars and transfer your weight aft. The beam had an 8" cross section but, in the context, looked like a wall. I started pushing backwards to edge to the rear of the line. My bike stopped abruptly. I turned to see Jack's wolfish grin with his boot on my tire.

It wasn't that bad. The upright riding position and light weight of the bike made it fairly easy. I was even eager for the next challenge.

In college, I did many things to earn some extra bucks. One was to participate in a deodorant test. We applied the test product and then shoveled sand until we broke a substantial sweat. Then, we lined up and a white-coated lab assistant came down the line. When he got to you, you raised your arms and he sniffed, making a notation on his clipboard. I thought this had to be the worst job on earth.

Wrong. The next drill was an avoidance swerve, where you had to maintain control and quickly return to your original course. We lined up and Jack walked about two thirds of the way across the lot. His assistant explained that Jack would hold a white sheet of card stock straight out in front of him. We were to ride straight at him at 50 mph. At the last second, Jack would sweep the card left or right, and we were to swerve to that side (hopefully missing Jack) and immediately return to the course, marked by cones. Jack had the worst job I ever saw.

Fortunately, no one ran into him. When someone did freeze, they merely went wide off the course, sometimes to the wrong side.

We worked hard and broke for lunch at 1:00. There was a Pizza Hut down the road, which was the only place close enough to eat and get back on time. I noticed that my age segment tended to huddle together at meal time.

We got into a discussion of why we were here. Tom, an orthodontist, had apparently had a midlife crisis at 40. He divorced and took up with a hot, wild girl named Starla, about half his age. Starla mentioned several times that her previous beau had had a Harley.

Tom went down to the Harley dealer and ordered the baddest bike they could supply. On the day it was delivered, he gave a perfunctory scan of the manual, started it and headed down the driveway. The next thing he knew, he was skittering across the street while his new bike preceded him through a neighbor's hedge. He brushed himself off, limped to the downed bike, pushed it up to his garage and signed up for the course. Interesting.

We returned to complete drills. Jack reminded us that we could use the classroom until 7:00 to review material, as the next day's final exam would include a written quiz. Only the old dogs (Tom, Clay and me) stayed.

At about 6:00, Clay and I stood and said we'd about had it. Tom said he had to hang around because he had told Starla to pick him up at 7:00. Clay and I looked at each other and sat down, saying we guessed we could help him go over the stuff one more time. One just had to see the girl worth buying a new bike for. From his description, I had envisioned a young Dolly Parton. Add tattoos and a couple layers of makeup, and I wasn't far off.

After giving Starla the requisite examination, I fired up my hog and headed home, taking a twisty back road to hone my skills. All of a sudden, there was a large lump just ahead of my wheel, possibly a big ground hog. I didn't think I could swerve, so I went to get up on the pegs to ride over it. Oops. Where the course bike had an upright sitting position, my hog was more like a lounge chair. Your couldn't have slid a sheet of paper between my butt and the seat. There was a sickening thud and bump, but I didn't wipe out. Didn't look back either.

I aced the test the next day, but learned more than motorcycle riding. I learned the value of lessons, especially when you think you already know. Trouble is, you often don't know what it is you don't know.

Shortly thereafter, I applied this important lesson to paddling and other things with similar revelations. Glad I did.