Learning to Ride

Just like Dad, I bought a bike I couldn’t ride. 

Dad bought his bike fresh from a cancer surgery, arm still in a sling. It sat in his garage for months waiting to be riden. Every day Dad would go outside and sit on his bike. He would wash her, start her up to maintain the battery, and dream of all the places they would see together. 

I was in a similar situation, minus the cancer surgery. 

The beginning portion of the licensure course is a written exam. Rawley and I piled into an old run-down building with a handful of other future riders to learn the basics. We all went around the room and introduced ourselves and why we wanted to learn to ride. 

“Hi, I’m Jamie. I promised my Dad I would learn to ride a motorcycle and scatter his ashes in all 50 capitals,” I said.

I heard gasps and giggles. 

“Oh my God,” the instructor said slapping the table and laughing. “I really hope I don’t have to fail you. Oh my God. But seriously, I’ve only failed one person, and it was this super old dude that couldn’t hold up the bike.”

“Well, I hope you don’t fail me too!” I told him. 

We learned about blind spots, rules of the road, and the like. After a break for lunch, we arrived at the practice parking lot, the sun was high in the sky, blasting down on us. Every inch of our body needed to be covered in some form or fashion. I’d push up my sleeves when I got hot and was quickly reprimanded to promptly pull them back down. Being covered help protect us in the event of an accident. We rolled the bikes up and down a small slope with just our strength and no engine power. The instructor taught us to stop, start, and shift gears. Eight hours later we completed the first of two classes.

 I felt so confident that first day, gliding across the parking lot. Acing the written course, starting, stopping, walking and parking the bikes. Motorcycle riding was daunting both physically and mentally, don’t get me wrong, but it was much easier than I had anticipated. So, when I found Bessie at DFW Honda that evening, I scooped her up making her mine. 

And then I failed the class. 

The second day of the riding course was different. Arthritic pain coursed through my body making it extremely difficult to move my hands and maneuver the bike. I knew I was a little off, but I didn’t think I was that bad, bad enough to fail. 

Everyone got the same bikes they had yesterday. Except me. Ignoring my objections, the instructor gave me a different motorcycle. One that had problems staying running. As friendly and accommodating as he had been, my skills were blamed for the riding issues, not the bike. I had zero problems the previous day, and I knew the stalling was not because of me. Everything was utterly off, and the panic began to set in. Around and around the parking lot I went, sputtering and dropping a leg at almost every turn. The instructor walked up to me at a stopping point on the far end of the lot. 

“Your husband isn’t getting it,” he said. “I’m going to have to fail him. Do you think he would try a moped?”

“Well, I’m not sure,” I told him. 

Taking a few more rides around the parking lot, the instructor jogged up to me yet again. 

“I’m going to switch you to a moped. You okay with that?” he asked me. 

ME? Had he just lied to me a moment ago? Was I the one in jeopardy of not passing? Why wouldn’t he just give me the bike I used yesterday? I did well on that other bike. But whatever. I agreed to take the stupid moped. It was the same license at the end of the day, and I would be on 3 wheels eventually anyways. The class halted as our instructor chugged up on a seafoam green moped. 

“I really need you to pass. I won’t be the one that fails you. This should be easier,” he said, handing over the clown mobile. 

I stepped on with my head held high in an attempt to make it look like this had been the plan all along, but the moped was worse than the motorcycle. It was clunky and uncomfortable. Two more turns around the lot, stalling and wobbling the entire way, here came the instructor. 

“I’m sorry. I hate this, but I can’t pass you. You will have to leave,” he said. 

“OK. I’ll book some private lessons. This isn’t the end of me. I already bought a motorcycle, so I have no choice,” I joked. 

Seeing me get off the moped, Rawley rode up to where I was. 

“What happened?” He asked.

“He failed me,” I said. “I guess I’ll just go sit in the truck and wait for you to finish.”

“No. Let’s go,” he said. 

Rawley told the instructor we would both leave together. 

That was a hard hit for me. I had just purchased a very expensive bike that I couldn’t ride. I would have to wait. Big Bessie was delivered a few days later, and she sat in the garage. The instructor suggested I try riding her around a parking lot and practicing. I was terrified but I believed in myself and I believed that I could ride. We eventually signed up for the private lessons with the same instructor that failed me. 

Having practiced on Bessie, I felt more prepared. I’m a completely different rider, I think. I was  going to pass today. I could feel it in my soul. Wanting to be in control and know when the important stuff was upon us, I kept asking when would start testing. But the instructor kept blowing me off. Watching Rawley and the instructor conspiring in the corner of the parking lot, I figured this must be it, even though I was told it’s a practice test. We ran through the motions of the required material, and here comes the instructor once again jogging across the lot.

“You did it! That was the test. I had to lie to you so you wouldn’t get in your own head and panic,” he yelled. 

I did it. We did it! We passed! The sweat poured off us, our faces red and swollen from the heat. But we did it. Jumping into the truck, we set off in search of the nearest DMV to get the motorcycle designation added to our licenses. This was my bright idea. Rawley wanted to wait, but I insisted on going immediately. My license pictures have historically looked exceptional. Strangers have repeatedly complimented me on how nice I appear; hair done and make-up on, donning a pearly white smile. But I wanted to look at this new picture and remember the agony and struggles. No make-up, hair greasy and sweaty, but still beaming from ear to ear. I wanted to see the effort and pain in my motorcycle license. It turned out to not be the best idea, as it is one of the worst pictures I’ve ever taken, but that part of our journey was finished and memorialized in a government photo, and now we could bask in the glory of our accomplishments.

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