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This is the third of four skills we are testing on, today. If we hit the brakes too early, or finish braking too late, we will have a second try.
Last time I did the drill, I kind of did both.
I had grabbed the clutch with my left hand. I had pressed the brake pedal with my right foot. I had downshifted with my left foot and squeezed the right hand brake—all by the book. But my right hand also accidentally vrooommed the throttle. The sound caused me to ease off the hand brake. The bike jerked forward. Mike gave me the mirthless cop look—not exactly a boon for one’s confidence.
The acrid smell of exhaust fills the air as I wait my turn for the brake test. My butt and thighs buzz with the bike’s motor. By the time I reach the front of the line, only two classmates have needed a second try.
Mike pulls his hand through the air, signaling me to start my approach.
I ease my grip off the clutch and roll on the throttle. The bike steadies in motion. I rest my feet on the foot pegs and shift into second gear. My eyes are fixed on the cones. I continue accelerating to 12 miles per hour.
“Way too soon,” Mike says, as I roll to a beautiful, smooth stop beside him.
It’s a do-over.
Mike sends me back to the starting line. I’m telling you, this would be much easier in a car.
T.E.A.M. Arizona T.E.A.M. Arizona has been training people to ride motorcycles since 1989. The company offers courses for all levels of riders, but the basic rider course I’m enrolled in is by far the most popular.
For $265, you get 10 hours of riding lessons—on a bike provided by T.E.A.M. Arizona—and five hours of classroom instruction. Those who pass the skills tests and written exam at the end of the course earn an exemption from testing at the Motor Vehicle Department. The curriculum is developed by the Irvine, Calif.-based Motorcycle Safety Foundation, and messages about safety abound.
One of the first things Mike told us yesterday was 97 percent of the people who crash on motorcycles had no training. It’s an alarming statistic when you consider the surging popularity of motorcycling.
The latest figures from the Irvine-based Motorcycle Industry Council show that ridership has increased by 23 percent since 1998. Harley-Davidson stock holders sure are pleased. No doubt you’ve also seen leather-clad packs of riders in your neighborhood.
Class introductions The leather was strangely absent when my class convened yesterday morning, but there was no shortage of machismo. My classmates include a trucker, a fireman, an Iraq war veteran and a denim-clad guy from Romania. Three classmates are women, including one whose black t-shirt said, “I’m the bitch who fell off.”
As we introduced ourselves, our reasons for enrolling ranged from wanting to pay less for gas to wanting to tour with friends. I explained that my wife was tired of my yammering about learning to ride, so she gifted me the course for my birthday.
The first-day classroom work covered everything from choosing proper riding gear to an overview of a motorcycle’s controls. Mike did most of the talking, and he showed us a series of videos. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one feeling giddy when we finally saddled up to ride.
Endorphin rush Now, I assume that at one time or another, you’ve gone for a stretch of time in the Arizona sun without a drink. If so, you know the body-quenching feeling you can get from a gulp of ice water. Well, I was surprised to find a similar endorphin rush from starting a motorcycle—and I don’t think I was the only one.
After we got in the saddles and familiarized ourselves with the various keys, buttons and switches, Mike had us start the engines to feel the live motors rumbling beneath our seats. We revved those things like motocross riders at the fair.
It was loud. The air filled with exhaust. My wrists vibrated as I rolled on the throttle. Then Mike drew his hand across his neck, signaling us to shut down. The first lesson was more about man power than horsepower.
First lessons We began by shifting our weight from leg to leg, feeling the bikes lean with us. This gave us an appreciation for the weight we would be balancing. Perched in the seats, we then practiced walking the bikes along the blacktop. We reached with the heels of our boots and pulled the bikes through awkward strides. We also learned how to turn around the bikes in limited space.
Soon the bikes were rumbling again, and we began easing off the clutch to the point where power transferred to the rear wheel. Short rides grew to laps around the blacktop. We weaved through cones. We learned how to shift gears. I was excited to be riding, but also humbled.
See, the basic rider course not only introduces you to the skills you need for safe riding, but also the inherent risks. With every missed cone and every awkward stop, the voice in my head grew louder. Do I have what it will take to survive in traffic? Wouldn’t I prefer a bucket seat?
By the end of Day 1, my left wrist burned from hours of squeezing and releasing the clutch. My shoulders were rail tight, and my head swirled with all the new information.
Day 2 began with roughly four hours of riding instruction, so by the time I reach the starting line for my second pass at the brake test, I’m feeling similarly beat.
Second pass Mike pulls his hand through air, and I start rolling.
First gear becomes second gear as I begin to approach the cones. Clutch, footbrake, handbrake, downshift, I remind myself.
I pass the cones. I release the throttle and begin braking. There are no extraneous vrooomms, but Mike barely looks up from his notepad. He directs me to the end of the line for the next exercise. I start thinking about when I’ll have time to schedule a re-test.
The last skill we are tested on is accelerating through a curve. The drill involves one short turn, a straightaway and then a long curve through which we will be timed. This one’s significantly more fun in my opinion, and it forces us to keep our eyes focused on where we want to be going. Mike already has told us, “Where your nose goes, the bike goes.” It’s a fundamental lesson in motorcycling, not to mention a handy life metaphor.
The last test goes without incident. My classmates and I park our bikes and gather in the shade around a water cooler.
Good news, bad news Roughly 5,000 people enroll in T.E.A.M. Arizona’s courses each year at locations in Ft. Huachuca, Glendale, Prescott and Tucson, as well as the main facility in Gilbert. Among those who take the basic rider course, more than 90 percent pass.
“Well, I have good news and bad news,” Mike says, when he joins us at the water cooler. “The bad news is you’re all going to owe $7 to the state.”
After an hour-long break, we reassemble in the classroom for the 50-question written exam. It takes less than 10 minutes to complete. Sure enough, the trucker, the fireman, the war veteran, the Romanian, the bitch who fell off, and I become part of the 90 percent pass statistic—as do the others in the class.
As Mike hands me my Motor Vehicle Department exemption, I feel a sense of satisfaction for graduating. I’m also relieved to get in my car for the drive home.
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As published in AAA’s Highroads magazine (January/February 2007)
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Motorcycle Diary Learning to ride
By Adam Kleiner
Mike didn’t have to say it yesterday, when we first saddled up on the bikes. But he’s an ex cop, so I know he was thinking it: better to learn how to stop here in an open lot than when you’re out in traffic.
Stopping a car is easy. You move your foot a few inches to the left and push.
Okay, maybe you work the clutch, too. But let’s just say that stopping a motorcycle is a bit more involved, and I haven’t been a quick study—not a good combination when testing for a motorcycle license.
It’s a warm, blue-sky morning in an industrial section of Gilbert. I’m saddled last in a line of 12 wanna-be bikers in T.E.A.M. Arizona’s basic rider course.
Mike Preville, one of our instructors, stands beside two small orange cones and a row of yellow stripes on the blacktop roughly 60 yards ahead of us. One at a time, we are to accelerate to 12 miles per hour, and after passing the cones, brake as quickly as possible.
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adamkleiner |
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Contact: info@adamkleiner.com |