Chick on a Bike: How I Learned to Ride in Six Days
I have always been fascinated by motorcycles and by people who ride them, as if they’re part of some connected clandestine clan, but it’s one thing to fantasize and another to make a fantasy reality. Where would motorcycle riding fall on my I’d-be-willing-to die-doing-this scale? Hiking, surfing, and bicycling are life staples for me, and if I die while participating in any of these, rest assured I was doing something I loved. On the other side of that scale are things that for me wouldn’t be worth dying for, like snow skiing or crocheting. I’m serious about this though. Everyone knows motorcycle riding is dangerous…. Just today I hiked with someone whose friend died on his motorcycle last week. The risks are real.
So, where would motorcycle riding fall on my scale?
One night in September I searched for motorcycle training near me. I admit, wine was involved. I found one two hours south of me in Somis, California, near Camarillo: “Learn to Ride VC.com,” part of the California Highway Patrol’s California Motorcyclist Safety Program. I found the Basic Riding course page and clicked on “Schedule Your Course” and then “Register.” I did as told. I put in my information, my driver’s license, and the course I preferred (BASIC!) and pressed “Send.” I made tea and went to bed.
The next day I got a call from the school. It felt a bit like having a package from Amazon show up and remembering, Oh yeah! I ordered that at 11 o’clock at night a couple days ago! The nice woman on the phone told me about the course: Saturday and Sunday, October 16 and 17, from 7: a.m. to 5 p.m. — two full 10-hour days.
You gotta be there by 6:45 a.m., she warned. If you get there after 7, they’ll turn you away. She told me what to bring: solid boots that cover the ankles, sturdy pants — jeans without holes would be fine — a long-sleeve shirt, and full-finger leather gloves. Helmets and motorcycles would be provided. The first four hours would be spent in the classroom, then a break for lunch, then 12–5 on the range riding motorcycles. Most importantly, no knowledge of motorcycles riding was required. Also, there were no refunds. If you signed up and paid the $350 and decided not to attend, you could not reschedule — you’d lose your money. Did I want to give her a credit card? Gulp. Yes.
When we hung up, I started dancing, which is anthema for me. I was elated — truly excited — and that visceral, joyful reaction told me I was doing the right thing. It was crazy, but good crazy — the kind that rides the perfect edge between risky and reckless, the kind that makes your heart beat faster and your lips form an insuppressible grin. The training was five weeks away. I told no one in my family for days, not Derek, my spouse, nor Diego or Charlie, my teenage sons. I kept that crazy secret to myself as long as I could.
I would need to find a place to stay. Hotels nearby ran about $150 a night, which meant $300+ if I stayed for Friday and Saturday nights. I looked for nearby camping. Almost everything was full, but Dennison Park in Ojai, a half hour away from the training, had spots. I booked two nights, Friday and Saturday. The total was $54. Score!
Sometime later when I talked on the phone to my BFF of 30 years, Alyson (aka “Al”), I told her about the training and said she should join me. We’re both 50 this year — my birthday was in January, hers in December — and hence poised for adventure. She said yes. Yes! Suddenly my solo adventure had turned into one with my best pal — a best pal who, like me, loves to camp. We’d each bring a tent and sleep under the stars.
We met at the campground at 4 p.m. on the Friday before the class.
Our spot, #14, had the best view in the campground.
We set up tents. No fires allowed the first night — bummer, as I had filled the back of Derek’s Subaru with firewood. We fished a couple beers out of the cooler and toasted each other. Dinner consisted of potato chips dipped in hummus. We went to bed after warning our neighbors of our 5:15 a.m. wake time. They were copesetic, but bless their young, energetic souls, they were just getting started with their evening, and I lay there for what felt like hours listening to their pop songs and chatter.
But when I woke in the middle of the night, all was dark and still. I heard a dog bark. Coyotes howled. Something scurried in the shrubs next to my tent. I lay there wondering: What am I doing in this tent far from Derek and the boys? Who am I? I was wide awake when my alarm went off at 5:15 a.m. I put on my bra and pants and shirt and socks and boots and climbed out of the tent. It was dark and chilly. Al was moving around in her tent. I put on my down jacket and used my JetBoil to make coffee. We mapped the destination — 30 minutes away — and hit the road.
The training was at Mesa Union Elementary School. A handful of cars were parked in the school’s lot. As we rushed toward the little portable classroom, a guy vroomed into the parking lot on a red Ninja, got off, hooked his helmet, and strutted toward the classroom. We wondered if he was the instructor. But our teacher for that morning session turned out to be Marylou, a robust woman in her 50s. She asked us to introduce ourselves and explain our riding experience, if any. We were a diverse group: among us were an older man from India, a college kid who was doing the training to surprise his dad with a motorcycle trip, a few different guys from Ventura who looked to be in their 20s, a middle-aged man from Ukraine. The guy on the Ninja, John, had been racing motorcycles for years but got pulled over, and since he didn’t have a motorcycle license, his punishment was taking a beginning training course with the rest of us newbies. There were about 16 of us, and all were men except for Al, me, and a young woman. Thin, blonde, tatted, she was dating a cop who had several motorcycles — they started dating after he’d pulled her over in her car for speeding and gave her a ticket. She was super nice.
Marylou peppered us with statistics: Motorcycle riding is 38 times more dangerous per mile than using a car; in 96 percent of accidents involving a motorcycle, the motorcycle strikes the other object; in 80 percent of crashes, the motorcyclist is injured (versus 20 percent when you’re a driver or passenger in a car); left-turning vehicles account for 20 percent of motorcycle fatalities (I was hit on my bicycle by a car that turned left in front of me when I was 15). The number one danger for motorcyclists is taking corners too hot.
You can die, Marylou expounded. Motorcycles are less visible, offer less protection, and for them, the road is much more dangerous. Riding responsibly was riding within your limits, every time.
She had told us to check with her before we left for lunch to make sure we had the proper footwear, and when I showed her my Blundstones, which have a soft elastic portion inside the ankle, she shook her head and said, You’ll shatter your ankle if the bike falls on your foot. Go buy a pair of appropriate boots and be back here in 45 minutes. Al and I hustled to the Camarillo outlets, where I ran into Columbia for boots and she into Chipotle for bowls. I emerged with a very solid pair of men’s artic hiking boots.
We arrived a few minutes late to the “range” — a coned-off stretch of the school’s parking lot. Come on, Marylou yelled, waving to us. We ran toward the group, which was already geared up with helmets and gloves. I put on my helmet, no idea how to secure the strap. Another instructor — Jim — taught me. The temperature was 90 degrees, and my outfit of insulated hiking boots, jeans, long-sleeve shirt, gloves, and helmet — along with the lack of sleep — had me momentarily doubting why in the hell I’d signed up for this — and dragged my best friend along.
The bikes were lined up: cruisers and enduros, a little orange crotch rocket thrown in to the mix. I was assigned the black Kawasaki Eliminator. We learned to mount our motorcycles and were then instructed to duck walk with the clutch in and engines off. We waddled our bikes to one end of the range, turned them around, and waddled back. Then we learned how to turn on the motorcycle. Key on, kill switch on, clutch pulled in — then press the start button. Mine turned over but wouldn’t stay started, and seeing my difficulty, Jim came over taught me how to pull out the knob on the choke, start the bike, then push the choke back in slowly. Everyone duckwalked again, this time with the engine on, slowly releasing the clutch to propel forward.
Every single skill they told us we were going to practice sounded like it would be impossible, but every time I tried, I got it, building on skills, one after the other, until, by the end of the day, I’d gone from not knowing how to mount the motorcycle, to riding down the range in second gear. We practiced braking, navigating turns, slowing, stopping fully with both the front brake (70 percent of your stopping) and the back break (the other 30 percent), and then starting back up from a standstill. It was a long day, challenging, exhausting, and absolutely thrilling.
After they let us go for the day, Al and I went to Vons and got crackers, cheese, more hummus, and some chilled white wine to celebrate, and then, back at camp, the host told us we could have a fire! We were thrilled. I poured some wine and made the fire with no trouble. We snacked and marveled that in one day, we’d learned to ride a motorcycle.
The next morning we woke at 5. We had to break down camp since we’d be going home when training ended that day. We drove to the school and brushed our teeth in the parking lot as the others arrived.
Back in the classroom, Jim ran through the slides and spoke in a loud, animated voice. After a short break, he passed out our tests, 50 questions, multiple choice.My heart was pounding as hard as used to in third grade when we did our times tables tests. I finished and walked to the front of the class and handed the test to Jim. He graded it as I stood there, nervous and hopeful. I missed only one question: the carpool sign is a diamond, not a triangle! I went out to the grassy field behind the classroom to wait for Al. She passed too! She lay a blanket down on the ground and we both fell asleep at once. She presciently set an alarm on her phone and woke me 10 minutes before we were supposed to be on the range. I would have slept the entire afternoon.
The weather as we trained that Sunday afternoon was perfect; even with all our gear on it was downright pleasant. We practiced more turning, some swerving, weaving in first gear through cones placed close together, making sharp 90 degree turns, stopping fast. At the end of the day, we were tested on our skills. Except for one guy, everyone passed, including me, even though I ran over a few cones.Then they set up cones to simulate a road with intersections. We were supposed to signal, stop, turn, cancel our signal, proceed to the next stop sign. It was a mess — total chaos. I doubted I could ever ride on a road, that any of us ever would, except John, the Ninja rider.
What was the next step then? I asked him.
Get a bike and ride and ride.
What kind of bike?
What kind of riding do you want to do?
That was a good question. Putter around town? Tour? Cruise? I liked the feel of the Kawasaki, which was apparently a cruiser. I always wanted a URAL — a motorcycle with a sidecar, but a friend said the sidecar made riding even more dangerous, and after riding on the range, I realized what he meant. I liked the idea of something vintage, like a 1971 Triumph, but even though I used to work on my VW bug, I don’t know anything about bike mechanics— yet.
Another guy chimed in: Test drive like 10 or 15 bikes — all kinds, even ones you don’t think you’d like. See what feels good.
I nodded.
And when you ride, John added, his face serious, assume no one sees you — assume they’re all going to run you over.
That’s what I tell my sons when they bicycle to school, I said.
When Jim gave me my certificate at the end of the day, I said, So, I’ve mastered motorcycle riding now, right?
You’ve mastered parking lot motorcycle riding, he said with a grin.
At our cars, Al and I hugged; both of us were haggard and happy. She followed me to the freeway, where we parted ways: she went south, I north. I got home two hours later and Derek had dinner on the table, a welcome sight. He and Diego and Charlie pelted me with questions. I told them everything.
Are you going to get a motorcycle? Diego asked.
Yes, I said. I think I will.
That same night, Diego started checking Craigslist. He showed me different bikes and we landed on a pretty cruiser, a Suzuki S40 Boulevard 650 cc. I did a search to read reviews and came across Doodle On A Motorcycle, the YouTube channel of a motorcycling neophyte. This was her summary: “At this point I have been riding on my S40 Boulevard for 5.5 months now on about a weekly basis. This is my first bike, so please note this motovlog is a beginner’s perspective on the Suzuki S40 Boulevard 650 cc.” I watched the 6:55 video as Doodle rode through her town.
That’s all I needed to see.
The ad said call, don’t text, so the next day, Monday, I did. Mark and I spoke for several minutes and decided to meet two days hence.
On Wednesday at noon, I drove 10 minutes to his little ranch. We talked and chatted easily. I circled the bike, already smitten. I got on, started it, and slowly pulled forward. The feeling was, I can do this, yes. I rode around the property, speeding up a bit to shift into second gear. The bike was beautiful. We chatted some more about our town, travels, work histories. He offered me a water. I took the bike on another spin.
What is that line between risky and reckless? How do we live that edge, know that it’s the right thing to pursue? I had followed my gut, taken the class. I didn’t want that to be the end of it. I wanted to keep riding the momentum.
OK, I said to him. I want to buy your bike.
So much for test riding 10–15 different ones. It was kind of like when I asked Derek to marry me.
Mark didn’t want Venmo or Paypal, so I went to the bank for the cash. We did the paperwork. And since I was too afraid to drive the motorcycle to my house, he rode it and had his wife, Charlotte, follow in her car. He drove up in front of my house, turned out, then backed the rear tire against the curb. He took out the keys and handed them to me and we shook hands, and he got in the car with Charlotte and they drove away.
I looked at the motorcycle. I took a photo and sent it to Al.
I thought, I’m going to have to ride it. Today. Now.
I put on my helmet and gloves. I started it. I took a deep breath. I checked for cars. Then I accelerated up the hill to the intersection, arriving at the same time as a car to my right. The woman waved for me to go, but I shook my helmet, so finally she went. Then I moved into the middle of the intersection with my heart pounding — and stalled.
The cars waited. I restarted the bike and turned. I had forgotten to signal. On the next turn, I signaled but then forgot to cancel it. How would I ever get this? I went around the block, nervous and excited. I came down the hill. I parked. I grinned. I did two more laps around the block. My nieces who live next door saw me on the second round. Who wants a ride? I asked them.
I do, Jill said.
Her mom, my sister-in-law, shook her head. Not till you’re like 10, Jill.
I ten! Jill replied. I ten! (She’s 3.)
I did another lap around the block for them, and they clapped.
The next day was Thursday, and I took the bike out again and did my laps around the block. I was feeling good and decided to ride through town toward my friend Heidi’s house. She was on her porch. I rode up onto her sidewalk. She shook her head in disbelief or disapproval or both and smiled. I turned off the bike and took my helmet off, then pretended to shake my short hair out as if I had long, sexy hair, mimicking this gif she had sent me when I told her I was going to do the training.
I lost my balance and the bike fell over as if in slow motion. Heidi ran over and had to help me lift it up.
After I regained my composure, she snapped a shot of me on my bike, my first, before I rode off.
The next day, my spouse pointed out that the motorcycle smelled like gas. Shoot. I had bought a motorcycle that was leaking gas. Because I’m impetuous. I called a mechanic but they couldn’t get me in for three weeks. You should call Greg, Derek said. Greg is someone we’ve known for years. Derek knew he had a collection of vintage bikes — Derek had seen him picking up his daughter from the middle school on one of them. I called him, and he was so cool, so excited for me that I’d gotten a motorcycle. I told him about the gas leak. He said to come over Friday morning so he could check it out. Can I pay you, I asked? In beer, he said.
Friday arrived. I had done the training the previous weekend, six days prior. I rode to Greg’s, which was about an 11-minute ride across town. I was so nervous. On the way there I got up to 35 mph! He found the gas leak — a small tear in a 4-inch gas hose — and in about all of three minutes, he showed me how to release the clamps, removed the bad hose, cut a new section of hose, and installed it. Zen! Art! Motorcycle maintenance!
Then he asked me if I wanted to go for a ride on Orcutt — a country road that meanders through vineyards. I told him I’d follow, but if I got nervous, I might slow down or pull over. But there was no need. We had the beautiful road to ourselves and let the bikes fly. I was doing 65 with blue sky above and acres of grapevines all around. I had been teaching for decades, raising children, paying taxes, volunteering, staying informed, voting, trying to stay within the lines. This was the biggest thrill I’d had in years. At a stop sign he looked back at me, and I gave him a thumbs up. We took a busier road back into town and navigated through traffic and construction. I pulled up next to him at a red light.
You’ve opened up a whole new world for me, I said.
He grinned and said: You opened that up for yourself.
The light turned green and off we went.
