...how the other half lives.


The Rider Safety Course


It all began when I waltzed into the office of our school's president and posed him a blunt question: "should I do it?" Paul looked up from some kind of a budget, blinked twice and said: "yes." Some may remember when in the early summer I asked the members of the VJMC mailing list about their advice on a Super Hawk and on whether I should buy it. 

Well, I bought it. The 1964 CP-77 became bike #4 in my collection. Bike #5 - a 1963 CB-77 (a parts bike) followed within three days.  Yet, the whole thing was rather odd as it left me with more motorcycles than the number of times I have ridden one - five versus three. At the time, I had not even heard any of my motorcycles run. Meanwhile the summer was almost over.  

So I made myself do it. I went to the RMV and took the test for the permit.  The school's president got his MC permit the next day. We were both already signed up for a MC Rider Safety Course (one month in advance as the classes fill up quickly) and we were going to get our MC licenses, before winter, damn it! You see, when I asked Paul that fateful question, in early June, Paul answered in earnest. He really did think that I should buy the SuperHawk. Not because he knew anything about motorcycles in general, nor about old Hondas in particular, but because, his kids already grown up and still being in good shape, he saw a companion (albeit only in a lowly teacher) with whom he could take steps in realizing something he thought about for years.  

This is how the school's president and the computer instructor both found themselves sitting in a classroom on a Friday evening. We were treated with some stern admonitions about responsible riding behavior, about proper bike dress and posture and about helmet and safety issues. Then the instructor pulled out a chair. Turning it so that the back of the chair faced the class, he swung his leg over the seat cushion and ended up facing us, his hands on the corners of the backrest. He mounted the bike. 

Over the next few hours various types of bikes were described to us - "street," "dirt," "cruiser." We were lectured on what the proper riding mindset is. Next, we were treated to a video in which a talking bike described its various components and controls, in a hollow metallic voice. It was painful, but I understand that the course must accommodate all levels. You can imagine our condition at the end of that evening. The next day we were going to actually ride, but for now a blue bike was waving its handlebars, from the TV screen, while looking me straight in the eye with its lit headlight. The evening ended with us playing a pantomime of starting and controlling a bike; shifting, braking, then leeeaning into the curve and all...  

There were about twenty-five people in the class. The demographic was an encouraging one-quarter female. Most of the people were in their mid somethings and our group even included a father and son team. Most of the people admitted to having had little or no riding experience. Some complained of already having made contact with garbage trucks and picket fences and two ladies said that after years of riding as passengers, they were taking matters into their own hands. Almost everyone in the class owned a bike. Almost every bike owned was of recent vintage and of Japanese origin, although one sans-bike feller did confess his desire to acquire a vintage BMW. Be that as it may, on Saturday afternoon we found ourselves in a very large parking lot with motorcycles lined up against one side of the perimeter.  

This was a perfect New England early-fall day. The air was clean and crisp, the sunlight was bright and the sky was just like the one in the opening shot of "The Simpsons." There were two types of bikes available: a Suzuki GS125 and a Honda Nighthawk 250 (actually a 233cc as cast on the block). The Suzukis had front disk brakes - a component utterly under-utilized in the course of our training as the speed hardly ever reached 20MPH. First, it was proper mounting dismounting; sidestands, etc. Then a manual roll (you push) a straddle roll (you sit on the bike and paddle with legs), then buddy roll (your fellow student pushes the bike with you in the seat). 

By the time that the "start them up" command was issued by the instructor, I had ample time to examine the black '93 Nighthawk with which I would spend the next two days. Comparing it to my '64 Super Hawk I could not but notice the inferior fit and finish of the newer Honda. Perhaps I am prejudiced toward the older bikes... Regardless, the Nighthawk comes to life with a push of the starter button and settles into an even idle as I look for neutral. At this point, the instructor demands that the entire class (by that point we are in groups of seven or eight) hold their left hands up, before each exercise - something that makes you either quickly become adept at finding that elusive neutral or experience the ignominy of a sudden forward lurch and a stalled bike. Meanwhile the rest of the class is waiting and the motors are idling impatiently as the natural "stop light revving" instinct takes over. Disregard the fact that the Suzukis have all but disappeared under some of the students' girth and that we are in the depths of a military base, surrounded by deep green woods on all sides, overlooked by an enormous watchtower, and we could pass for a pack of Harley hogs, stopped at a stoplight, about to disappear in a deafening roar. 

Instead, we let the clutch out sheepishly, so as to get the "feel" of the "friction zone." I stall my bike out on purpose, just to get aquatinted with how it feels - nothing overly dramatic. Then it is on to rocking the bike with the clutch; feet on the ground, outstretched forward, let the clutch out and the bike pulls a bit, then pull the clutch handle in and the bike rolls back. Finally, the instructor is satisfied with the "clutch" results and explains to us that we are ready for our first lap around the lot. After a thorough explanation of the hand commands that we should watch for, we are waved off. At this point, we pull away smoothly, shift through the gears, lean into the turn and disappear down the road. This is the perspective that each rider has at the moment. To anyone observing the whole operation, from the side of the lot, we putter around in first, wobble through the turns and stall on the straightaway, causing traffic jams and pileups. 

As the day wears on, my recollection of distinct exercises begins to blur. I can only report to you that with greater speed and control, the feeling is progressively more exhilarating. A successful upshift into second, rolling through the turn, weaving through the cones, then a well coordinated downshift and a smooth application of the brakes leaves you with the most satisfying sensation. The focus necessary for good learning is cathartic. Your system is cleared of all earthly torments as you become one with the machine... Then it's just you and your motorcycle; your moves - elegant, reaction - instantaneous, maneuvers - coordinated. Then your hand slips off the clutch and you do the bucking horse for a few feet. Then the instructor runs up to you and kills the motor. Then all is quiet.  Then you become aware of other riders. You are in the middle, they - on the periphery, riding around you. Observing them for a bit, you hope that YOU, when riding, don't look as pitiful as some of them. But, of course, you do look every bit as novice as the others, yet by the end of day two, with the sun setting over the  woods and the air becoming nippy, there is a definite change. Some forces have made the newly engendered skills congeal into a somewhat predictable level of performance. The riders are more consistent; even the mistakes assume the air of being "controlled." 

I passed the riding test just when the sun was at its lowest point before falling below the tree line. The wind was blowing harder - already cold - foretelling of the impending winter season throughout which I will have plenty of time to reflect upon everything that had just happened. To say that the experience had been rewarding would be to make an understatement... In closing, I should say that the rider's focus is, decidedly, the single most significant attribute that I have been made aware of. Perhaps best acquired in a controlled setting, I hope mine will soon be supplemented with an actual sensory input at large. 
 

Michael Stoic    

September 1997 

 

stoic@honda305.com         

 

CB-77 | CYP-77 | Road Test | Riding Log | Literature | Zen | Marketplace | VJ Survey | Links | Home