On occasion, I think I’ll toss out slice-of-life blog posts. I have some pretty good stories to share, and not all of them fictional.

Sometime in the winter of 2007-2008, I got a bug up my *ahem* and started thinking that I wanted a motorcycle. This was crazy, of course – I knew all the risks, dangers, and fatalities. There’s no way I could justify the unexpected urge. I certainly didn’t need one – I had a great car – and I couldn’t really afford a second vehicle…

So, in keeping with my tendency to listen to instinct and emotion rather than intellect and logic, I attended and passed the two-day intensive Motorcycle Safety Foundation safety course on August 9-10. I’d never before ridden a bike. (For the record, I highly recommend that beginning riders take that course. It’s incredibly good information and experience, and it can give you enough practice to see whether you want to get your own bike. Plus, if you pass, most states will let you avoid the DMV tests and just get the M endorsement with your completion certificate from MSF.)

On August 28th, I purchased an old, scruffy, 1979 Honda XR 500 dual-sport motorcycle. I named him Comrade, which is an in-joke that only folks who’ve seen Enter The Kettlebell or heard Pavel Tsatsouline will get. (“Comrade!”)

Now, without further background, the story of my first ride.

It’s night. September 10th. I’m nervous – nervous enough to have to blank my mind from chattering as I pull on my helmet, snap the chin-strap tight, and shrug on my jacket. My gloves follow, and I open the clear visor of the helmet, knowing I’m not going above 15 mph tonight. Just the parking lot, I tell myself, half-encouraging and half-reassuring. I just want to ride a few circles in the parking lot. I’ve been procrastinating too long, and if I ever want to do this thing, I’ve got to just do it.

It’s a nice night, but warm beneath the synthetic jacket. I listen to my breathing as I wheel my silent motorcycle into a good starting position that won’t make me veer to avoid parked cars. Some people are laughing and chatting loudly on their porch a few doors down; I try to ignore them. I swing my leg over Comrade’s back and straddle him securely, adjusting myself until I’m comfortable. I keep breathing, sitting there for a few moments, then I flip the kill switch to run and turn the fuel line on. Kickstarter angles out, and I kick at it ineffectively. Jaw tightening, I stand on the footpegs to drop my full weight onto the starter with every kick, exhaling in time with the motion as though it’s a martial art. After a dozen tries or more, my motorcycle roars to life, then settles into an uneasy idle.

He’s old. I let him idle and check the replaced-fifteen-minutes-earlier headlight – works perfectly. I sigh in relief. The last bulb burnt out prematurely, and I would have been disappointed if this one had blown as soon as he started. His growling is erratic and deep, but he isn’t thunderously loud, nor does he reek of oil and gasoline. I try to smile, try to relax, and empty my mind again as I put the kickstand up and touch my feet to the ground below his flanks. No time like the present, right? I fully expect myself to stall him, not knowing yet where the balance lies in easing the clutch out and rolling on the throttle on this particular bike.

My training and caution pay off – he slides forward with a mutter, moving slowly but smoothly. I lean to turn him into the route I want to take amongst the parking spaces and remind myself to stay loose. My body relaxes minutely. I stand on the pegs, my hindquarters half an inch off the seat, as we take the first speed bump. There’s no trouble keeping myself or Comrade balanced – we seem to know what we’re doing, although it’s mostly an illusion for my part. I take a gentle curve, whispering lean – just lean, just lean… to myself and starting to feel a weight lifting from my chest as the cool breeze touches my face. I’m not too warm anymore.

We get to the first turnaround, and I prepare myself to stall him as I squeeze the clutch and try for a wide U-turn. He snarls in protest, louder than I expected when he hits the friction zone, but we turn. It’s a shaky turn, full of too-sharp curves and hasty straighter corrections, a little tap of the foot brake and uncertain throttling – but I don’t have to stop or walk him, and he doesn’t stall.

I lift myself over the next speed bump with more confidence and a growing grin. I’m doing it – I’m riding my own bike! You’d think it would be a less impressive feat after surviving the grueling MSF course and suffering through the DMV to get that little M endorsement on my license, but this first ride is– was– just as daunting as showing up for the safety course with a knot in my stomach.

I make another U-turn at the other end of the parking lot and have to walk him for a few feet; I wander to the first turnaround, swing through it, and head back to the second. I’m getting slightly better and relaxing more now. The fourth U-turn is where I finally stall – I hadn’t been paying as much attention to the balance of clutch and throttle that time. I nod, telling myself that it’s okay, and I start trying to kickstart him again. After two dozen attempts, it’s a no-go, even when I try holding the throttle gently to give him an extra boost. (It worked well last time.) Either I don’t have the power in my dropkick, or his engine’s flooded, or he’s just being recalcitrant. A thirty-year-old bike has the right to get crotchety, after all.

I reluctantly give up and walk him back to our parking space, thankful that he’s such a relatively light bike. (He’s under 300 pounds, despite his tall frame – dual-sports just have that lightness to them.) I park him pointing the way we’d come and sit on him for a while, comfortable, pensive. I did it, but I don’t want to end on a note of failure. After several minutes of motionless silence, I turn out the kickstarter and give him a few solid kicks. With a muttered growl, he comes to life again and rumbles beneath me.

I smile, thank him, and shut him off for the night.

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