Have you ever tried to lift a 600 pound motorcycle back to its upright position while fuel spills over the pavement faster than your ego spills from your head? Five minutes earlier I had signed the paperwork for my first motorcycle. Now it lay on its side in the dealership parking lot whilst I struggled to get it back up on its kickstand. Gas continued to pool out around the engine–I was reminded of the scene in a crime show when someone lying on the ground from a gunshot wound and their blood is oozing out around their skull.
It seemed like such a good idea at the time…
I had taken a two-day intensive training with 10 of the 16 hours spent riding around a track and learning how to safely maneuver a bike amongst painted lines and cones. The class was well worth the money and I cannot recommend it enough for new riders. If you successfully pass the BRC (Basic Rider Class) you receive a certificate for your motorcycle endorsement meaning you don’t have to take any further training or tests to receive the ‘M’ designation on your license. You do, however, have to spend 3-hours at the DMV waiting for the damn designation–but that’s the topic of another blog. I should also mention that this was the process in Georgia and the process in your state or region may vary.
There are, of course, significant differences between the BRC and TRW (the real world). In the BRC you are on a closed, flat, course; just you and twenty other newbies (or refreshees). You learn on a 250 cc bike. For the uninitiated, a 250 weighs a little less than 300 pounds and is fairly low to the ground. My training bike is pictured to the left. The instructors are thorough with basic skills like acceleration, deceleration, stopping, shifting and turning; they cannot cover all aspects of riding–like starting on a hill or any type of incline. While they do stress to ‘ride like your invisible’ or, the corollary, ‘ride like everyone is out to kill you’, they can’t go with you to buy that first bike. They do advise that your first bike will select you and don’t spend a lot of money on that first ride. So now I was ready to make that first bike purchase. I spent days on Craigslist, Motorcycle Shopper and want ads looking for a bike. My price point was 3K and I wanted something bigger than a 600. I believed the riders who told me I would outgrow a 600 quickly. I also wanted something Jo would feel comfortable riding on the backseat (which was kinda silly considering the instructors said we should wait at least 1000 miles before we put someone on the backseat—and Jo thinks that number may be closer to 2000).
I visited local dealerships: The very nice and patient sales lady at Harley almost had me convinced that an Iron 883 would be perfect me. Sure, it was 8k and brand new, but, she said, ‘it fits you so well.’ And it did. The weight felt right, the seat was comfortable; and nothing quite sounds like a Harley. However, it was brand new and 5k more than I wanted to spend. See, I was really looking for something I wouldn’t feel too bad dropping once or twice and getting marred and scratched. Dealership after dealership, bike after bike, it didn’t feel right; or it was too expensive; or it was too light, or needed too much work. Then she walked into my life.
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| Hello, Sexy! |
Oh my. It was a 1999 Triumph Trophy 1200, 35,000 miles, with fairings (a shell that reduces air drag) and saddle-bags (technically “panniers”). True, it is a sports-touring hybrid and I was really planning on a cruiser, but damn–it was hot looking. And the price was perfect. I sat on the bike and started it. The salesman offered to let me take it and him for a test ride, but I was not comfortable having someone backseat with me.
The bike was a tad high–and it’s center of gravity was somewhere up near the top of the gas tank; higher than the most cruisers. No problem though, I had my license (which, I earned during the BRC test in the rain), it was a bike and bikes can be bossed.
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| You know you want to ride me! |
Settlement day came, I signed the paperwork, the salesman handed me the key and banged the gong (apparently, a tradition in the dealership where I bought the bike was every new sale rings the gong–something about an angel getting their wings). From the dealership floor to the lot where the Silver Ghost waited I had visions of myself zipping down the highway and cruising into my neighborhood on a steel horse: morphing from a middle-aged writer with an iPad to an outlaw with a six-shooter.
Then I stepped into the Georgia heat and saw her standing there. I was ready to mount my steed. I just needed to snap my helmet and I would be ready to—-wait–how do I make that attachment? There shouldn’t be this much strap hanging down. It was a T, no–ummm, a D loop. Shit…Everything I learned in class was gone! I struggled with helmet, trying every combination of the strap until I gave-up and Googled it on my phone. Deep breath…I can do this. With a little effort, I got my helmet on my head and secured. Now to pull the bike out of the lot…
And the fuel continued to spill.
I wasn’t sure what happened. One second I was on the bike–feathering the clutch, starting to accelerate–next I thing I knew I was fighting to keep my balance and then we were down–my turn signal in pieces on the ground. I tried lifting the bike with my back–and slid on the gas, landing squarely on my ass.
“Help you, sir?” One of the guys who worked in the dealership pulled up and saw my struggle.
“Sure.” At this point, I was no longer a middle aged writer, but an out-of-shape senior with delusions of becoming a steel horse cowboy. The sales guy lifted the bike–with some struggle I noted with a dull satisfaction–and cut the engine. He suggested I let it sit for about 5 minutes. We gathered up the remains of my shattered turn signal and dropped them in the pannier.
Fifteen minutes later I was back on the bike. Kicked it into first, slight twist on the throttle, feather the clutch–wait–this is too fast–squeeze the front brake! Squeeze the front brake! Oh shit–not again….
It happens in slow motion. First the bike begins to wobble and I plant my foot and try to push the bike the other way–then I overcompensate and the bike starts to tilt–my stomach tightens but brain knows it’s already too late. The bike topples past the point of no return and the best I can do is slow the fall. This time it’s the other turn signal that is knocked from its housing.
Gravity: 2 Tony: 0
At that point, I took the dealership up on their home delivery option. When Jo saw me pull up in a pick-up truck, she assumed I’d already been in my first accident. No, I explained, I have a problem staying upright.
In the next 60 or so miles, I dropped the bike about eight more times. Enough that I thought I should just trade it in for something a little more my speed, like a Big Wheel ™. But, I stuck to it–this bike was not going to beat me. After hours of research and watching on-line videos, I picked up a couple of tips. It wasn’t easy, but now, some 500 miles later, my confidence level is such that the only place I am likely to drop the bike is on an uneven surface where my foot cannot get enough purchase to prop the bike. As long as the temps are above 30 degrees or and it’s not raining sideways, the bike is my first choice of travel.
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| My ride. Note the different turn signal from the photos above. |
Tony Sarrecchia: Storyteller 
I grew up riding. My dad put me on a mini-bike before I knew how to ride a bicycle. I took off and hit the barn. So yes, it's been proven that I can hit the broadside of a barn should anyone doubt that talent of mine. We had a string of bikes through my teen years – 75s, 80s, 125s, and a 250. We road in the fields, on a cinder path that once served as a trolley track, through the woods, and gravel roads. I laid one of the bigger bikes down on that cinder path with a passenger on the back to avoid hitting a cute boy riding one of the other bikes once. I was picking cinders out of my legs (yes, we rode in shorts and flipflops, sometimes in our bathing suits) for years after that, it seemed. But safety first, we always wore helmets. Your story reminds me why I've probably never gotten around to getting that Honda Rebel and then a Harley. As you get older, it's uncanny how the ground gets harder and further away than it used to be. The first time I'd dump it in the street, likely at a stoplight with traffic honking and people pointing and laughing, I wouldn't get back on it, I don't imagine. My ego would be as bruised as whatever body part I landed on, I suspect. Good for you for not turning around and asking for your money back at the dealership.
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That's funny because I can so see you riding a Rebel. You should give it another shot!
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