I vividly remember my motorcycle rider's class. It was at the local community college on a Friday evening and all day Saturday. I was 48 years old and SO nervous. We all piled into a classroom on Friday evening with our riding gear in hand and met our instructors. That clinched it for me. We had two gentlemen as instructors whose obvious secret dream in life was to have been drill sergeants torturing new recruits. I felt that we were about to fulfill a portion of their dreams.
I looked around the room and found that there were about 5 women and 10 men. Of course I was old enough to be the mother to most of them. There was no one else in the class over the age of about 35. I kind of felt doomed as the drill sergeants began barking the rules to us.
It was pouring torrential rain that evening and I was very relieved to find that we would not be riding as we expected but we would finish all book work and ride the entire next day. The studies were simple for me. I passed all those assignments and prepared to begin the next day on the bikes.
Saturday morning we all met in the big parking lot with our instructors, helmets and gloves in hand. This is the point where I have to tell you that at 6 foot tall and 200+ pounds, I was not only the oldest one in the class, I was the biggest one in the class.
We went to the garages and all picked our bikes from the assortment of little Honda 250s parked inside. We then began the real portion of the class.
The first thing the drill sergeants did was make us get on and off the bike... about 100 times. Just on and off. Kickstand up, kickstand down. I was anxious to ride.
Well the long and the short of it is we finally started those little bikes. Sitting on one of those little bikes, I felt like a teenager on a tricycle. My legs were just too long, but I was grateful not to have too much power in that engine as I began letting out the throttle for the first time.
We rode around and around the parking lot, around cones, doing quick stops, avoiding obstacles, and learning to shift and clutch through the gears. Oh, and the drill sergeants barked out orders and berated us the entire time.
By noon that day, I was exhausted. Yes, that is pathetic but I had been a desk jockey for years and really felt my age that day. Right before our lunch break, the meanest drill sergeant was standing right beside me as we purred our little bikes into the final formation before lunch and came to a stop. He told us to dismount. I complied, but this time I forgot the kickstand! I toppled to the ground under that little 250, right at the instructor's feet and laid there stuck! I was the only one of the whole class who had dumped their bike. I laid under that Honda struggling to get back to my feet and recover, looking beseechingly at the instructor, who offered no help to me. I wiggled and pushed and finally righted myself and my little bike. I just thank the good Lord it was not my 600 pound Harley Softail on top of me. As the drill sergeant watched my struggles in quiet satisfaction, he almost grinned. After I finally got up I said "Does this mean I am not going to pass?" I think I was trying to find a graceful exit after the fall, but he said something non-committal like "I can't guarantee anything", and turned and walked away. Reminded that "big girls don't cry", I steeled my resolve to rest at lunch and return in the afternoon to pass that darn class.
In my next post I will tell you just how I passed that class!
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