A few nights ago, I was in my car, waiting to turn onto West Bay Road, and on my right, there appeared a biker.
As soon as there was a break in the traffic, allowing us to join the flow, he was off with confidence, smoothly turning into the available space and carrying on his merry way. I sighed, and thought back to when I too had owned a motorised two-wheeler.
Have I ever told you about it? No? Okay, then I’ll begin.
I don’t even know what made me think about getting a motorcycle at the time (about 10 years ago). Maybe there had been some reruns of ‘CHiPs’ on TV, or perhaps I’d tried on a black leather onesie in a mall and figured I looked like a sexy courier. I was a bit too young for it to be considered a midlife crisis… did there really have to be a reason?
In a way, the whole thing got triggered by someone who was selling a Kawasaki Eliminator. I wasn’t a huge fan of the name – it was a bit too close in sound and implication to ‘Enema’ – but the look of it appealed to me. It was a cruiser-style bike with a black leather seat, and only a 125cc engine. It was therefore a light model and perfect for learning on.
That’s the whole thing with getting a scooter or motorcycle licence; it’s not like a car, where you have to have a licensed driver with you. You are on your own from the beginning. I bought my red learner’s ‘L’ plate (which muted the sexiness a bit), plastered it on the beast, and prepared to become as one with my new steed.
Luckily, I had an advantage from the beginning, in that I had quite a few friends with years of riding experience. They talked me through my Flintstones period (where my feet spent more time on the ground than on the bike), and my Zoolander phase (couldn’t turn left, kept thinking I would fall over), to the point where I was pretty confident going up and down the street.
Back then, I lived in Snug Harbour, which was perfect for training wheels. The neighbours got used to me jerking past their properties, particularly over the weekends. They also learned that waving to me was a bad idea, in case I waved back and lost my balance.
It was quite a while before I decided it was time to brave the main road. I had to be sure, because I would be turning out onto the bypass – no slow introduction to real-life traffic. Best friend and housemate Lynne, who had questioned my desire to ride, but knew that once I had a thought in my head, there was no stopping me, bid me farewell as I pulled away from the house. The XL helmet was on, and I was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved top, proper biker boots, and a jacket. I was about 130 degrees as I sat at the mouth of Snug Harbour, waiting for a huge window of opportunity before I was willing to risk moving out. My biggest fear was that a car would pull up behind me, and wonder why the heck the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo in front of them wasn’t budging.
Finally, the opportunity presented itself. I’ll be the first to admit that I wobbled, rather than majestically launched myself into the thoroughfare. No matter how comfortable I’d become in my little neighbourhood, this was a completely different level. Fingers clenching the handlebars, I fixated my gaze on the first hurdle, which I was fast approaching. The Roundabout.
“Please be empty, please be empty, please be empty,” I chanted out loud, willing the traffic gods to be kind and allow me to continue my journey, unfettered. I didn’t want to have to brake and gear down to first, then suffer the additional pressure of leading the charge into the roundabout. Smooth starts were not my strong suit.
Fortune was smiling upon me – there were no cars circling, so I was able to transition from the straightaway and take the inner lane to make my way around and down to West Bay Road. Once I was on the Seven Mile Strip, I relaxed a bit, and started to enjoy the experience. I don’t mean I was suddenly putting my feet up on the handlebars and taking my eyes off the street; I just was liking the feeling of the wind through my hair and seeing the shops from a different perspective.
I made it to my destination in one piece: Fidel Murphy’s pub. That’s where my mates (and motorbike teachers) were all hanging out, waiting for me to arrive. I have to say, striding into the pub, carrying my helmet, felt pretty awesome. It was just begging for me to say “I’ve got the microfilm” or “MI6 gave us the go”. I think I actually swaggered.
“Wa-HEY!” came the greeting, as I put my helmet down and tried to swing my hair in slow motion. My God… I was magnificent.
Of course, I didn’t drink any alcohol – I was all about the cranberry juice with the sparkling water chaser. I was laughing and chatting and socialising with abandon, until it hit me: At some point, I was going to have to pull that bike out of its parking space and ride back onto the road. Some of the lads had already threatened to come out and watch my riding prowess. I couldn’t have that (see “smooth starts were not my strong suit”), so what did I do? I waited all of them out. By the end of the second hour – nearly two hours longer than I had originally planned to stay there – I was on the brink of calling Lynne and asking her to pick me up in her car. We could get the bike later, at night.
Mercifully, the final barfly departed the property as the sun was about to go down. It could have been that they needed to get home, or maybe me steering the conversation towards why the tomato is such an important part of the daily diet, tipped the odds in my favour. Whatever the reason, the last witness was now gone, and I could make my move.
As I had suspected would be the case, it was a wonky exit from the lot. There would be more of those in the future, but over time, things improved.
In those first months, getting used to the main road, I turned left a lot. I hated crossing traffic, so the routes I took were mapped out with only left turns. It sometimes took longer to get where I was going, but I wasn’t willing to risk it until I was more confident.
There were those who recognised that this was my first rodeo. I remember turning into the parking lot at work, and a friend driving a truck nearby yelled out, “Haven’t had that for long, huh?”
Speaking of work, there was that time we had to get a CD of photos (yes, readers – that long ago) to the Marriott with a tight deadline, and it was near rush hour. “I can take it!” I announced, back to sexy courier mode.
Off I rode, a sleek machine gliding along the tarmac, effortlessly cutting through the wind like Japanese steel. I rode up to the main hotel doors, where many were outside, waiting for my precious cargo. That therefore meant I had a capacity audience when I hit the brakes, and the wheels, which had skimmed through a puddle in the last 100 feet, promptly slipped on the glossy tiles, putting the bike on its side and right on top of me.
There was a collective gasp, then everyone ran forward to help. The mortification was immediate and excruciating. I might have run off, if I hadn’t been pinned under pounds of metal.
“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine,” I squeaked, handing over the CD, which had survived the fall. I was unhurt but it was practically guaranteed that my secret agent status would be revoked.
Despite these small, yet very public, setbacks, I did persevere. Not only did I pass my motorbike test – I even bought a bigger-engine model (from Bob Soto, God bless him) and passed the test for that.
Time passes, things change, and it’s now been many years since I rode a motorbike. I missed the simple joys of air-conditioning, and liked not arriving at destinations with hair shaped like Marvin the Martian’s noggin, so I returned to the boring world of cars. But then, I saw that guy riding his bike, and suddenly I thought of revisiting those glory days.
On the other hand, I could just grab the Vaseline, shoehorn a tight leather catsuit onto my bod, and walk into bars carrying a helmet. Ya gotta love the cheaper, safer solution.
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