My first time on a Harley was October 26, 2005. I was 35, and newly single. The tall, smiling guy I’d met on a plane two days before showed up on a 1999 Road King. I’d spent two hours getting ready, and all that preparation was about to be destroyed. I was a motorcycle virgin. You need a jacket and boots, he said, and sent me back up to my cute new apartment to change. Try telling a woman she has to change her outfit on your first date! That took tack. What I didn’t say was that he hadn’t even been able to get through the apartment gates! It was a new complex, and the weight of the bike wasn’t enough to activate the gate entry. I’d had to go downstairs and get the apartment manager. Flustered, anxious to get on with the date I was then told to go back up, reopen the door, and find my sunglasses. By then I had to tinkle, I was hot, and I was just about to call the entire evening off.
Then he smiled. A big smile, brown eyes sparkling, and deep dimples flashing. OK, my brain said, give it a try. After Sushi and too many dirty martinis I wound up back at his place, in his bed, and that was just the beginning. Not to hurt his man pride, but what I remember most about that night was holding on to him, the vibration of his bike between my jeans clad legs and the wind blowing the hell out of my perfect hair-do as we cruised down Cave Creek. The feeling of being on the back of the bike was the feeling you get on a roller coaster, highlighted with the intensity of a new romantic hook-up.
The next year was a blur of bike runs, bike bars, new bike clothes and an increasing addiction to being a back-seat rider. The next October my little red Nissan Altima had a car problem. I know how to put gas in a car. Period. But my guy came through for me, allowing me the use of his stick-shift truck. Nice. Haven’t driven a standard in ten years. Nervous as a cat, frightened of wreaking the nice little work truck, I borrowed it.
Hello. Standards are fun! Shifting is fun. I’d forgotten all of that after years of automatic spoilage. The next weekend his quad and I became intimate on the back trails of Crown King.
Perfect build up to signing up for motorcycle riding school, my brain said. On a cool November Friday evening I entered a muggy room four minutes late. Nearly every seat was taken. My throat was dry, my palms were sweating and I wanted to run away. Quitting would be so easy. It didn’t help that the instructor, a sarcastic forty-something, chose to launch into a lecture about timeliness.
There was an odd mix of students. Military men, skinny young girls, an aging clairvoyant, hardened riders, testosterone driven boys and a slender Asian with a brilliant smile.
Four hours and forty-five minutes later we were given our tests. I’d completed all fifty questions in five minutes. If I didn’t know something, I guessed. The first answer on the multiple questions that seemed to make the most sense was picked. Armpits wet, I leaped up, grabbed my purse and nearly tripped getting out of the humid room. 88 out of a 100! Not too bad, though I’d missed answering one question. Breathing hard, exhilarated, I met my guy for a drink. I also had to drive his butt to the airport at 4 AM because he was leaving on an extended guy trip to an exotic island I’d never heard of. Lots of words to describe my feelings on that one!
The next day at 9 A.M .my girlfriend called because I’d overslept our date to go hiking. At least she woke me up! Three hours to anticipate getting on a bike… all by myself… and controlling that bike! Coffee, chain-smoking, puking, all in that order did not make a great start for a productive day.
We were all presented with bikes that were dented, faded and sans mirrors and with their standard issue gear. Helmets and long sleeves and riding boots are hot under the Arizona sun. Chewing gum, drinking water, thinking positive thoughts has not helped with a dry mouth, a tense stomach and growing sense of unreality. The day had grown surreal. Disembodied I looked down at the girl on the little Honda Rebel 250 and thought, ha, ha, what an idiot!
The instructions for the first exercise are a blur. I’d already forgotten what FINE meant. I’d already stalled. My turn. My turn to go… wait, I’m supposed to stop! In that moment I had a complete and utter melt down. A panic attack. All I remember was falling over and sliding on the ground. And pain. The yellow-shirted instructor was asking me if I was all right. I stood. I picked up the bike. I got back on.
No one else took a spill that day. It was an afternoon of drills, instructions, forgetting those instructions and stalling the bike that was too small for my long legs. My guy was out of the country. I was tired and sweaty and sore. My left hand felt numb. I wasn’t going back. I’d quit things before.
I’d embarrassed myself several times. I’d almost mounted one of the school-provided bikes that was assigned to a cocky young man. He was quick to tell me it was his bike and that my bike was over there. Like an idiot I asked him if it was his own bike… stupid, he had his own Ninja! Later a fire engine (there was a fire station across the street) began shrieking and I jumped a mile high. The instructor said that I scared him and everyone laughed!
Sunday morning at ten thirty I was still in bed feeling sorry for myself. Five-year-old children could ride bikes! My neck hurt from the weight of the borrowed helmet. Why go back? I wouldn’t pass! I would fall again. It was too scary.
I thought about the past few years. I’d quit my marriage. That was a good thing, but I’d still quit. I’d quit my master’s program. I’d dropped friends and family members. I was more afraid of life then I was living life. And then the thought of telling my guy that I hadn’t even finished the course made me realize that I’d be ashamed to do that. Even if I accumulated too many penalty points and was told to leave, I’d still have at least tried!
Sunday afternoon greeted me with a change of bike. On the Rebel I’d felt like a clown on a pocket-rocket. The Honda Nighthawk was heavier but more fitting to longer legs. Something happened that day under the hot Arizona sun. I still forgot instructions. I made a wrong turn and almost killed another rider. I forgot to shift down to first during a stop. I stalled the bike. But now I didn’t care if I passed or failed. I was going to stick it out until I was told to leave or I passed.
It isn’t easy executing a perfect figure eight. It isn’t easy ignoring firemen in massive red fire trucks performing their own maneuvers a few hundred yards away. Numb handed, and with sweaty pits and an aching neck I DID IT!
I passed with only five penalty points for not stopping and shifting down to first.
The biggest lesson was learning how vulnerable bikers are, and how skilled riders need to be to ride well on Arizona highways. I might just continue to be a back-seat rider… and I might not. Either way, I love riding and will keep it up (until summertime!)
“Frieda Cooper”
Phoenix, Arizona
