“I think we’ll have another slice of pie”, as he cuddled with his new wife having swapped out the old wife 2 years before meeting and falling head over heels for this, his second. Quite an upgrade in the looks department and a biker to boot I thought. Their love was still fresh, and tart and hinted of renewal like the last bite of summer blueberries lying on the plastic plate.

What the hell I thought sitting back down into the tattered rattan chair and scanning the hillside as it disappeared into a thick tangle of trees and vines. My mind clouded by the meal of greasy cheeseburgers, limp French fries, and diet coke chilled by ice smelling of sulfur. This trip may become a motorcycle ride if we could stay away from the inns and dives always offering the best of something. The best blueberry pie in this case, the best hot coffee in the previous and the absolute best biscuits and gravy at the one before this.

On this trip I moved at a pace set by others. Instead of long hours leaning into tight turns at speeds that challenged my skills I melted into cheap restaurant furniture trying to avoid the stares of strangers. Me in my rough-cut leathers, red flannel shirt, heavy boots and black head scarf with images of long dead pirates. All 280 lbs, gray beard, clean shaven head and nose red from to many rounds at the bars I spent most of my time in at home my blue jeaned bottom strained the over-stretched woven cane. The lovers still embracing shared every bite of food, speaking together in soft voices just loud enough to acknowledge my presence but broken and coded to avoid any interruption. Glancing over her shoulder the departing waitress looked right though me focusing more on the Boston Fern hanging over my shoulder than expecting an answer from me. “You want anything”? In one of those moments where I chose to select my words carefully instead of tossing the quick witty remark that would aptly describe my feelings I stared back at her, burning a hole through the plastic lens of her glasses. Point made and point taken, the waitress retreated to her red stool by the bar.

“You sure you don’t want a piece of pie? You really need to try the pie, you don’t know what you’re missing, and this really is the best darn blueberry pie I have ever eaten”. “Yes”, a softer, definitely female voice offered, “you really should try the pie”. “No guys, I’m fine, just ready to get back on the road and back to camp before it gets dark” I replied. “We’ll only be a moment longer,” she added. “Joe loves good pie and I must admit this is some of the very best pie I have ever eaten”. “Judging from the damage he did to that first piece I’d have to say it must be pretty good pie” I offered.

Conversation distracted the attentions paid to each other long enough to produce a break in their embrace. Leaning way back in his chair stretching his arms toward the fading sun a huge grin filled his face. “Does it get any better than this,” he beamed, “that’s what I love about these motorcycle rides, the time we spend together as friends”. For a moment I could see why Gay fell in love with my friend. He valued the people in his life more than anything else, often putting the needs of his friends ahead of his own needs. “Yes, I’m so glad we have spent the last couple of days together”, that soft delicate female voice whispered. “You really get to know people when you travel together” she added.

The waitress returned with the warm blueberry pie. As she laid a new plastic plate in front of Gay, her left hand extended the plate full of pie towards Joe. His eyes grew with anticipation and then disappointment. “What, no ice cream? I’m sorry, did I forget to ask you to add a scoop of that vanilla ice cream? Would you mind adding a bit of ice cream, it’s not to late is it?” “No Sir, I’ll be happy to get ice cream for you, stay right where you are and I’ll retrieve it right now for you”. Flashing across my closed eyelids, like the credits of a movie ‘stay right where you are’ bore into my brain. Fifty-year-old fingers protruding from my gloves tried to massage the words out of my head to no good purpose. Stay right where you are she had said, damn, we sure ain’t getting out of here until we get the pie thing right I replied with words that never passed my lips.

Opening my left eye just enough to fein a headache I noticed the pie begin to sink under the weight of the thick dough crust, forming a pool of blueberry innards that inched toward the edge of the plate. Strictly the passive observer I watched as the plate filled with warm blue ooze, and wondered how the vanilla ice cream would change the color of the white paper tablecloth as it was added to the pending overflow of mashed blueberries.

Tablecloth catastrophe was averted when the ice cream in it’s own deeper bowl was placed on the table and Joe’s plastic spoon retrieved half a scoop of the blue and then half a scoop of the artificially colored yellow. The spoonful of sweetness brought a smile to Gay’s face as she enjoyed the treat. The food brought them closer again, he moving his chair to be nearer to her, she swinging her left arm around his shoulder.

“You know, we almost missed this place, I’m so glad we stopped, aren’t you honey”. Her response was a smile not quite wide enough to expose what I was sure where blue stained teeth. “I’m sure glad I put new brakes on the Goldwing;” he offered to the table, “we really had to lay down on them to make that turn into the driveway”. “Yea Joe, that was quite a maneuver, I saw your brake lights just about the time I looked up from my speedometer. That would have been hard to explain to the police, biker killed trying to get a piece of pie! I’m just glad you made the turn to the left and got out of my way cuz I had this vision of flying over my handlebars and ending up in Gay’s lap.” “Sorry brother, didn’t realize it was that close.” “Seventy miles an hour to a dead stop in the middle of the highway kind of got my attention but what the hell that kind of stuff happens all the time, right Joe.” Just thinking what this lunch could have cost me made my hands sweat.

“You guys about ready to hit it? I’d really like to get back on the road,” I said as I slowly pulled myself out of the deep, cane chair and pushed my hands toward the ceiling. Stretching all 6ft 2inchs felt good after the long lunch and I was looking forward to getting back to why I came on this trip. Putting the rubber to the Arkansas asphalt between Hot Springs and Russellville. Another couple of hours of verified great motorcycle road, then an hour or so to the campground. I was looking forward to the cool air and smooth highway to clear my mind. A deep yawn that ended up sounding more like the roar of a caged lion blew any chance I had of remaining anonymous to the rest of the diners and startled Joe and Gay.

“Ok, I can take a hint” Joe laughed, “let me hit the men’s room and pay for lunch; we’ll meet you outside.”

The pathway to outside and freedom was cordoned with working folk and tourists trying to get a bite to eat before returning to the tasks they had planned. An elderly lady sitting with friends and sipping iced tea from a heavy tumbler averted her eyes and pulled her purse closer as I neared. I tried to think as she was thinking. Pulling the purse closer, was that an instinctive response to fear, the purse acting as a shield or was she simply making room for me to pass? I sensed her lowering her voice and mentioning to her friends that the roaring lion in leather was getting to close for her comfort. I could see her veined fingers clutch the purse even tighter. Her back stiffened as she leaned into her friends seeking the safety of the group.

Bending over as I passed her I paused, just a slowed step actually but staying long enough for her to look up at me out of the corner of her eye. I knew she was trying to ignore me but she was trapped in the open like an injured fawn, a meeting she couldn’t avoid, a confrontation she hoped would be fast and painless. Before she could ask what I wanted, before she could protest my invasion of her personal space I leaned deeper, a knight’s bow to his queen’s grace. My lips parted, a wide smile showing my cracked, smoke stained teeth as our eyes met.

“Mam , don’t forget the blueberry pie, I understand that it’s quite good”.

After nearly 3 years of begging and pleading, when I was 10 years old my mom finally broke down and bought me a used motorcycle. It was a 50cc Honda, with 3 gears and a shift pattern of N-1-2-3 with a cable clutch. The first time I laid eyes on it, I knew then it was the most beautiful motorcycle in the world: I had to have it. Lucky for me, my mom was willing to part with the insane price of $40.00 cash to get it for me.

I was a skinny little runt back then and my older brother at 14 outweighed me nearly double. That little bike sure had spirit, though. It would pull my brother and I up the steep hills around the house like we weighed nothing, as long as we attempted those ‘hill climbs’ in first gear.

I had my first experience at being a mechanic with that bike. I would pull old shifter cables off the neglected bicycles in the shed and use them to jimmy-rig a working clutch when my cable would break. I didn’t know much about preventative maintenance. Couple squirts of oil on the chain and sprocket, gas in the tank, and I was ready to ride. I managed to pull the carburetor off once or twice. Take it all apart, soak all the parts in gasoline in an old plastic pan, and put it all back together so it would run again.

Top speed of that mean machine was likely less than 25 miles per hour, yet the first time I was able to ride it for myself, I was flying. It was as if I had inherited the world. The huge world was brought into closer perspective when I had that motor and those two wheels under me. A 60 minute walk through the woods to an aunt and uncle’s house was reduced to 15 minutes of a most joyous ride imaginable. I would call ahead of time, and my aunt would have warm cookies fresh out of the oven when I got there. A quick card game or two, and I would climb back on my steel horse and gallop away. More often than not, I would take the long way home and it was still an hour for the return trip.

I remember once in my travels, I stumbled upon an old, neglected cemetery while traversing a newly found dirt road miles from home. One of the names upon the stones I read in somber peace that day had a military insignia chiseled out before the departed’s name. I remember standing ramrod straight in my best impersonation of attention, snapping forth my best attempt at a salute, and thanking that fallen soldier, that had perished many years before I was even born, for the opportunity for my freedom. I’m sure anybody watching then would have laughed at my futile attempts to be “grown up” that day in the woods, but it was that day in the woods when I realized I was growing up.

Moments later, I threw my leg back over my motorcycle, kicked it to life, and headed down that dusty road thinking to myself, this is what life is all about. Now, nearly 30 years later, I have an electric start. I have a helmet, gloves, and an armored jacket that I wear for my protection. I have, more importantly, come to realize that, thanking that Unknown Soldier, riding away on my motorcycle and looking for life’s next journey…really is what life is all about.

I sold that machine to a friend about 2 years later for $20.00 so he could get it set up for a nephew of his. It had served its purpose with this young child and it was time for it to go help the next adventurer. My older brother, now 18 and having joined the military asked me not longer after if I would like to take care of a brand new motorcycle he bought and kept at the house while he was stationed away. Of course, how could I refuse such an offer, but that, I’m afraid is a story for another day.

Yesterday was the first real ride of the season in Central Minnesota. I’d been around the city twice before in recent weeks on warm afternoons, but this time I went 150 miles and found some good, tight curves. The weather is finally, genuinely warm. Not the fickle, fleeting kind of March warm that disappears with the sun. The road has been heated by the sun, so my tires stick, and the air is warm too, so my muscles stay relaxed and ready. The scent of old leaves thawing slips through my helmet as I ride.

My motorcycle had been in a sullen slumber in the little shed in my backyard since New Year’s Eve day. Ok, I was the sullen one. I no longer own a snowmobile, which had been my winter rush. Three or four years of nowhere near enough snow saw to that, so I sold it. I couldn’t justify having a few thousand dollars worth of playtoy rusting in the garage. I had now lacked any form of good old-fashioned speed fix for over three months. (Dodging sloppy drivers on icy roads doesn’t count.) Yesterday, my cravings were satisfied, at least temporarily.

I live in a land of cornfields and lakes. Around the cornfields, the roads are squared and uninspiring. A sport rider usually likes curves. Around lakes, the curves can be plentiful. But so can cabins and their associated vacationer traffic. Speed in these areas isn’t a good idea. So I ride half an hour to the only curvy road that’s somewhat isolated from urban areas and typically has light traffic.

Truth be told, it’s not really a curvy road. It’s a typical northern road, but the corners are closer together. Instead of riding half a mile and turning at the end of a cornfield, this road seems to have been built after all the local farms were well established. At least that’s my best guess. For something like twenty miles, the corners come frequently. They’re almost all ninety degrees, but they vary in radius, and some are strung together in pairs. It’s pseudo-curvy, a good approximation of the roads I’ve ridden through mountain canyons in the west and southwest.

Here corners are marked with the yellow signs that I interpret as saying, “The posted speed limit is higher, but this is how slow we think you should go”. Sure. Thanks. For cattle trucks, maybe. The signs reading 35 get ignored. I roll through them at my normal back road pace. Having been stung a few times before by law enforcement, and being a generally responsible rider, that’s usually within ten of the posted speed limit. These corners get the bike leaned over some, but nothing serious. Heck, I’d lean that much with my wife on the back.

The ones reading 25 get my attention. If I get to daydreaming, they can be dangerous. I slow to about 50 for those. I shift my weight to the inside of the seat and tilt my upper body toward the mirror. The bike doesn’t have to lean as much then, so the tires grip better. It feels good. The forces generated by the lean angle press me downward into the seat. A motorcycle is always balanced, unlike a car, so there’s no feeling of pressure toward the outside of the turn. It’s all down, through the bike. It’s like flying. I smile behind my helmet.

One of the 25 m.p.h. curves catches me off guard. Riding is a release, and with that sometimes comes contemplation and distraction. I find myself entering the curve without having set up properly. I’m a bit too fast, and I’m sitting bolt-upright in the seat like a prim schoolteacher on a piano bench. Not good for fast riding. Adrenaline tingles in my blood. I lean and push on the inside handlebar. My eyes automatically find that fringe of grass that’s greener than the rest this time of year, having been warmed by the pavement. I don’t want to go there, yet I can’t look away. It’s a survival reaction, but it’s exactly the opposite of what I should be doing—looking through the turn and leaning harder.

Suddenly, the books I’ve read and the training I’ve done kick in. Or maybe it’s the realization that the ditch is probably more painful than the road. I decide that today isn’t my day for a crash, and I make a firm decision to remain in control of my fate. I press harder on the inside handlebar and force my eyes away from the shoulder. The machine leans willingly. It was my limitation, not the bike’s, which almost did me in. At the apex of the turn I feel the edge of my boot and the hard end of the footpeg grind the pavement briefly. It didn’t startle me this time, though. I’ve felt it before, and I’ve thought about it many times. On a bike like mine, if you’re dragging bike parts, you’re getting close to the edge of traction. That’s where the thrill lies, but it can be dangerous.

I mentally scold myself for having lapsed in concentration, and yet I smile. It felt good. It was poor form, but it was fun. I’ll do better next time.

The fifteen mile per hour signs are usually in small towns, where the state highway becomes a local street. The hazard lies in the sand left by the plows after snowstorms. It doesn’t get swept up in these little towns, and there hasn’t yet been a hard rain to clear it. I slow to about 25 and scour the road with my eyes, straining to see the sand before my tires are on it.

At the midpoint of the ride I stop for lunch at a Subway. I always feel a little conspicuous removing my safety gear in public places like that. Everyone watches. My state doesn’t have a helmet law, and this freedom is extrapolated by many riders to the point where they don’t wear much protective gear at all. I’ve been down before. I’ve spent weeks changing bandages on skin that wasn’t properly protected. Now I dress for the risk, as most European riders do… head to toe. It’s like wearing a seatbelt—once you’ve done it for a while, you feel exposed and vulnerable without it. So it takes a minute or two to pull of my gloves, helmet, and jacket at a lunch stop. I always feel that those watching are just waiting to see what the guy under all that stuff actually looks like.

People are sometimes curious. They ask if it’s hot with that jacket on. I tell them I’d rather be hot than bleeding. It makes the point. For non-riders, it’s often something they’ve never really considered before. Today, after I return to the table with my meal, the older gentleman who had pulled in behind me asks whether I was chilly on the bike today. I tell him no, it’s just right. I can wear my gear and not get hot. He asks whether I’ve ridden far. I tell him where I’ve come from, and I mentioned the road. He smiles knowingly. He and his wife sometimes drive it for a change of scenery. He says he can see why I’d like it.

After we eat, he wishes me a safe ride. I say thanks, then begin the process of gearing up again. Even this becomes thrilling, bringing to mind what’s ahead. I’m about to ride the same road back the way I came from. And it’s only the first real ride of the season.

Last year I had a mid-life impulse buy, traded in a 2003 ST13 for a 2006 Honda 919. Nice, fun little bike, but I lost my zest for riding on it. Until I discovered what I was missing; the journey. My heart and soul just likes to kill a couple tanks of gas in a day ride. So out with the 919 and in with the new Suzuki Bandit 1250SA. Just in case any of you are interested (it took home an award in this month’s Motorcyclist MOTY Awards), here’s a mini review.

Brought home a new Bandit 1250SA today. After getting the new bike run through at the dealer’s, I did a 50-mile shakedown cruise. First impressions are based on this short ride on highway, twistys, town, and city. The bike will be broken in per Suzuki’s recommendation: initial 500 miles below 4500 RPMs and vary the speed, so comments on high speeds and high performance will come later.

Engine: Torque O’ Plenty! This engine pulls hard. With its flat torque curve the Bandit generates 64.5 lb-ft of torque at just 1,800 rpm, and from 2,700 rpm there’s more than 70 lb-ft on your right hand. On the highway, I found myself in a big rig’s blind spot. A slight wrist twist in 6th gear (no need to downshift!) and I was gone. The engine, coupled with the rocket launcher exhaust can is very quiet under 4K RPMs. So quiet in fact, that it’s too easy to go too fast very quickly. I normally like a bit more exhaust grunt, but for touring and 2-up riding, this will be a nice change.

Handling: The steering is very neutral. She leans over easily and once there, requires no additional input to keep your line. Its five hundred pounds leans and steers effortlessly. Definitely looking forward to more spirited rides on the twists once the break-in is done, but know this isn’t a sport bike and isn’t intended to handle like one.

Suspension: A little soon to tell, but seems downright nice. A little tuning front and rear will make it behave even better no doubt. Contrary to what I had read, the front end doesn’t dive badly under hard braking. Ride is smooth and solid.

Brakes: My first bike with ABS. Didn’t engage it on this ride, but the ‘whir’ from the front brake is interesting if you’ve never heard it before. Aside from that, plenty of stopping power all in all. The levers feel a little spongy but nothing some braided lines won’t cure.

Controls: Both the clutch and the front brake are adjustable and provide a nice reach. The hydraulic clutch with its coil springs is new on this model and engages easily and very smoothly. I really like this. A lot. Shifter and rear brake are pretty normal. The transmission coupled with that hydraulic clutch is very smooth. I may have to adjust the shifter a bit, it seems too low to me. I noticed my right foot was pretty warm, more than I’m used to. Oh, I didn’t find the bars or their angle awkward at all.

Protection: I actually like the stock screen. On the way to the dealer, as I’m blasting down the road at 72 on the 919, I wondered if I’d miss the totally naked ride. Windscreens have been hit or miss for me on bikes and I liked not having one on the 919. But this Bandit’s screen seem adequate for my height (5′9″). I was getting wind blast, but it was clean air and I wasn’t doing any bobble head impersonations. Another sign of decent protection: the cockpit is not terribly noisey at highway speeds.

Mirrors: I have to say something about mirrors because I’ve replaced stock mirrors on almost every bike I’ve owned. Usually they are terrible in form and function. Although I’m not crazy about the look of screen-mounted mirrors these ones actually work. My shoulders are big (54″) and they are all I usually see in mirrors, and normally they vibrate. With just some minor adjstments, I was clearly seeing everything behind me and quite a good ways to the sides too. And no vibration. Nice job here Suzuki.

Fit & Finish: Everything looks to be top notch. Seat fits well. Plastic is firm and doesn’t vibrate or buzz. Paint is fantastic. Hopefully the clearcoat on the tank isn’t soft and easily scratched like my last two Hondas.

Here’s some pictures. This was before I added Suzuki side cases and top case. Looking forward to many more miles.

For a discussion on the new Bandit visit our forum.

Oops! Maybe not! I was rudely wrenched out of my reverie this morning on my ride to work. The State D.O.T. is resurfacing a stretch of concrete (not macadam) highway along my route. They’ve ground down the surface for rain grooves. It makes for some tricky riding, but once you are used to it, it is okay. Some of the grooves are deeper than others and can influence your line of travel.

So I’m tooling along, and it’s March. Around here, that heralds the beginning of the gusty wind season. The gusts are kicking up lately I’ve noticed. I’m watching traffic around me, getting buffeted pretty hard from both sides, and of course the front at an 85 mph (indicated) speed to keep slightly ahead of traffic, but people are still blowing by me like I’m standing still. I start thinking about some of the questions the new riders have been asking, and realize there’s a pattern to them. I begin mental checks of all the advice given over the past couple of years that I’ve seen here on how to ride in the wind. I check the advice against my techniques, and see if there is anything I’m lacking or could add, when all of the sudden….Wham! I get hit with by a crosswind. Hard enough to move me from the left of the lane to the right side. However, I don’t make it all the way to the other side. I get caught in a large groove that forces the bike to follow it’s course. In a sense I’m stuck, and I wonder how the bike is being glued to the line. I realize that I neglected my pressure check (on the tires), and that may be a culprit. And I wonder how newbies deal with this kinda thing.

Now a groove is not an edge trap, but I begin to think about how edge traps will be a cool discussion. How to deal with them etc. Strategies, and so forth. I’m playing the thread titles over in my head, and acknowledge a 53′ trailer pull over into my lane suddenly. I mentally note that it is not a secure trailer but a canvas covered box trailer. The lanes are packed solid on both sides of me, so I back off the throttle a bit to build some distance. I couldn’t get over, so I settled in a good four or five lengths behind the truck. I hate them for the fact they shed tires and obscure other road debris from my view. I briefly think about a motorcyclist that died a few weeks back around here because he was struck by a flying pallet that was unsecured on a truck. As I start to think about the thread topic again, I briefly took my eyes off the trailer to shift to the far left of my lane and try and look around the trailer.

Something shiny catches my attention. In that brief moment of inattention, I’m not clear if it was kicked up by the tires or fell out of the loose canvas door flapping in the breeze, but a piece of new angle iron was airborne and heading my way.

Immediately, I pushed hard to get to the far right of my lane. Out of the path of the incoming missile. I clamped the brakes down, and built more distance. The metal object hit the ground in a fanfare of clangs and sparks as it twisted, and tried to settle down. Settle down it did, sliding about seventy miles per hour with the vee facing up down the left hand portion of my lane. I realized it wasn’t going to do any crazy flips (yet), so I gassed it and passed it. The noise the metal was making as it went past me was something like I’ve never heard before.

So after the adrenalin dump wore off. I critiqued what happened. Where’d I go wrong? What else could I have done?

So I see myself as target fixating too hard, because while I was slowing down, trying to see what if any crazy hops it’d take or if it was going to be a hit, to minimize the impact speed, and set the bike for an appropriate impact angle. In the meantime, the lane next to me completely opened up, and I missed that opportunity for escape.

To read comments on this article or to post your own, visit - Edge Traps

DAY 1
I left my house at about 3PM to get to Farleigh Dickinson’s campus in Hackensack, NJ, about a good hour from my house, which translates to 45-50 minutes of straight NJ Turnpike travel. I get to the building of the course at about 4:30PM, and ask the receptionist to show me the room. It’s right around the corner from the entrance, so I leave it at that, and decide I’m hungry and that I need to buy boots, as my shoes that I had did not cover my ankle past 1″.

I hop in the car, go to Target, buy some nice boots (very comfortable and warm, I may wear these all the time) and then get some food. its now 5:30 so I head back to the campus and go to the class. I’m greeted by two instructors, who check my permit and license and make sure I’m in the class. I sit down, and begin talking to a guy who’s never ridden a bike before. It sure is a good thing he’s taking this class, because had he been a rider, he’d be the biggest squid ever. He’s cool though, and I start telling him about my bike. He inquires to see my helmet, and I show him, and he really likes it (the color scheme, red/silver: it’s an HJC Orbit). A few more students come, and pretty soon the class is full. Out of the 10 students, 6 are men and 4 are women.

After about a half hour into the class, one of the students asks to talk to the instructor outside, and claims that he does not like the participation involved with taking the course. As ridiculous as it sounds, he leaves the course all together. What a waste of $250. whatever, at least we know he wont be halfassing the course and slowing everyone else’s learning down. We sign wavers, and get an introduction to the course, including safety and liability information. We then begin to look at the book, and the course jumps straight into the video, chapter 1 of the video, which is called Welcome to the Ride, downloadable at the MSF website. We then, after splitting into teams of 2 or 3 and making team names, begin to answer sections of the practice exams in the back of the book. The questions are very simple for the more-than-basic rider, but important fundamentals to consider nonetheless. Out of the 4 women in the course, 3 were backseat riders, and 1 presently rides a 600cc Honda scooter. Now thats a serious scooter haha. Anywho, we do 2 or 3 sections of questions followed by video segments, and then take a break.

During the break I talk to one of the instructors, who tells me the individual who left left because of participation issues. Apparently, back in the day, they just lectured students and now want to make it easier for students to pass the knowledge test and eliminate the need to study, so class participation is strictly required as a teaching aid. After a 10 minute break, we talk about meeting at the range the next day, and do a few more sets of basic questions (the first few chapters are what you’d expect from the first few chapters of a BRC - different types of motorcycles, safety, gear, hypothermia, etc… then as the chapters progress, topics such as the controls, the location of the controls, and steering are introduced, as well as petcock info T CLOCS, FINE and SEE). at about 9:45 we are dismissed, and I’m laying here in bed about to go to sleep, as i have to wake up at 4:30 tomorrow. Bummer. Oh, it’ll be cold, I know. But it just seems all too exciting. I’ll be editing this as the days go on. So far its fun, I’m looking forward to the next two days… I’m young, I can take harsh environments… I have a feeling I’m going to hear a lot of complaints from the older crowd. Oh well. I have a license to earn!

DAY 2
I’ll admit, I am not a morning person by any means. This morning began with me rolling out of bed at 4:30am. I figure out the best way to layer pretty much every pair of pants and shirt that I own, and then cook a nice big eggs and toast meal. I leave at 5:30 for Teaneck, where the riding range is (it’s the other side of the Hackensack campus, but you have to drive around the town to get to it). I get there at around 6:45am where a few of my fellow riders have showed up and are drinking coffee and staying warm in their cars.

The instructors are out on the range taking the bikes out of storage and turning each on and performing inspections. Oh, and by the way, bikes used in the FDU motorcycle program, as I’m sure a lot of places too, are not registered or insured, nor do they have turn signals or mirrors. Brake lights are there, and the headlights are disabled. The gearshift indicators are removed as well from most of them.

Well, the morning began with the infamous bike test. Everyone passed pretty swiftly, as I hoped. I would hate to see anyone leave the program so early. Next, after helmets are distributed, boots are checked and attendance is cleared, we get to choose bikes. I of course choose a GN125, my own bike. Out of our team’s 9 bikes, 8 are GN125s and one is a Honda Nighthawk (250).

I’ve never seen bikes in such horrible cosmetic shape. Dents, scratches, loose clutch levers. These bikes were abused. I saw the instructors setting a few bikes up, so I chose the one that looked the most mechanically sound, since I, a lady, and one other guy are the only three people in the group that have ever sat on a motorcycle by themselves before (the guy used to ride in the past, he and his son are taking the class together, his son being 17 making him unqualified for a license waiver automatically, and the lady’s husband bought her a Yamaha VStar as a first bike that she had been learning on with her husband for a little while as she had her permit). As you’ll find out later, my bike had something a little below the surface that would cause me some trouble later.

Nice… so everyone has a bike and helmet now. We are refreshed with TCLOCS and FINE, and are taught how to mount and dismount the bike. Leaning the bike in either direction to discover weight and learning to tell when the bike is in neutral is heavily stressed at this point. Oh I forgot to mention, we had pushed all our bikes over to the other range (there were two groups working today, FDU has a few ranges set up throughout the campus) and that helped us learn the weight of the bike as well.

Basic stuff from there on out such as finding the friction zone, pedaling with the bike, head turns are taught now. Lots of stalling. LOTS. At this point I can tell that some people are going to have a lot of trouble with this course.

Once we actually start taking our feet off the ground, things start looking up. People are getting excited and there is a lot of improvement.

I can’t remember every exercise precisely, but they progressed from simple straight lines with emphasis on braking to ovals with loose weaves and tight weaves on either side, with a turn on either end of that.

Two girls fell off their bikes. One honestly I can say will most likely not pass the course. She almost caused me to crash, and I want to say I am kind of disappointed that she was not removed or taken to the side to practice how to move. It’s really frustrating, and I can tell the other students were frustrated as well.

So we practice until about 2pm then break for lunch. A few of us go out and get BK and go back to eat. After lunch we watch movies and do questions based on road safety, since we had been on a course the whole time already, nothing really special there, basically all stuff that is on the DMV knowledge test. Class dismisses at 5:30.

I also got an offer from the FDU motorcycle program to purchase my GN125 if I ever decided to sell it. They would pay me $500, but I don’t think I could a) lose money on the deal or b) sell such a beautiful and perfect bike for such a low price. The bikes they get are from auctions in PA from other training programs. My 125 is no salvage bike, I’d even like to say it’s one of a kind, for the kind of shape that its in.

I’d also like to say that it was really nice that the instructors took the people who actually had experience on a bike and made them the “leaders” of the reversals and exercises. I was a leader for the majority of them, being that I own the bike and also have experience, so I know how the bike acts.

Well that is day two. Tomorrow is the big day. I’m going to take some NyQuil and pass out in a little while (I have a sinus congestion, it’s really f’n annoying haha). I may also say that this class is not for everyone. With people falling over and hurting themselves, and potentially hurting others, I would rather see these people fail, and practice some more before issued licenses. You must have self control in knowing when the right time is to leave the class. I just hope there is no accident come tomorrow. I really am looking forward to getting my license. In a way, I need it. And the instructors know, I made sure they knew haha.

So far I am almost completely pleased with the class, with the exception of the instructors not addressing certain problems that can potentially cause injury.

Day 3
So I wanted to wait a few days to write this to get my license, take my bike out for a few spins and to feel life as a licensed rider. So far so good.

The last day was the most fun of all. For some reason, even with 7 hours of sleep, I was alot more tired than I was with 3 hours of sleep the night before. I got to the range at 6:45 and took my Sudafed for my sinuses as I’ve been having the sniffles for a few days. The morning was a lot smoother than the one before, we just got our bikes, did pre riding inspections, etc etc. We rode the bikes to the range. The first exercise was awesome. It was a combination turning/weaving exercise. I had alot of fun on that one, the idea was to keep a constant speed of about 15-18mph through the whole thing. Alot of people were taking it at about 8-10, which was a little annoying as the instructors kept waving their hands to speed up, and the slowness caused everyone to have to slow down.

The next few exercises were turning exercises. Constant head looking and press-lean was emphasized. Next was the obstacle exercises. Four 2×4 pieces of wood on the ground around the perimeter of the range were dropped. This was easy to pick up, and most of the students were satisfied with it as there wasn’t really much going on besides riding in a circle and rising up on the seat a few times. There were a few swerve left/right/stop exercises which were fun to do because countersteering is just so much fun.

We then practiced the actual exam. There are 3 parts. The first part consists of a standstill, left turn, shift to second, make a tight u-turn (When we practiced u-turns the first time, they were alot wider, the instructor told a few of us who were doing well to try the tighter ones. I had it down the first time I tried.), another u-turn, then exit the box. Continue on to the cones, still in second, accelerate to about 15mph, and then swerve around a set of cones to the right. Brake smoothly, look back at the instructors and then proceed to the next course and cut your engine. One girl had to do this part of the exam a few times. It kinda gave us a break to relax and think concentrate on the fundamentals before the next test. The next test was a braking test, which we had practiced. You had to start out, shift to second, And then brake precisely at a set of cones in less than 14 feet. Stop with your left foot down (VERY IMPORTANT) and looking straight ahead. This one takes a little getting used to the bike to do. My brakes were sort of new on my bike so it was a little easier. The last test was another 2 part test. Start out, shift to second around the corner of the range, make a right turn, accelerate, and then complete a 130 degree turn (outside inside outside very important) all while looking with your head of course, and then exit the turn, ride down to the cones, brake smoothly, and then wait for instructions. The one girl who took extra time doing the tests needed extra tries on every part of the exam. But it gave us all a few minutes to relax.

Next was lunch. Had some amazing Boston Market chicken.. mmmmmmmmm… Anyways, the test was next. Let me tell you this test was ridiculously easy. Simple questions, and maybe 5 trick questions, but whatever, it was easy.

After everyone was done with the test, we got them back. I got a perfect 100. Everyone passed the test except for the girl who took extra time with the riding exam. She got a 78. An 80 or better is required to pass the course, so she automatically failed regardless of her riding score.

The riding score works like this. You start with 0 points. Mistakes made on the riding exam have numerical scores attached to it. You want to have as little of a score as possible. We finally got our score sheets back. Everyone passed except for the girl. I guess some people are just not made to ride bikes. Oh well, I got a 4 on the test, i stopped 1 foot too far on the braking exam, and I was going too slow going into the first turn on the last part of the exam. Oh well, nothing too insane, but happy with my score nonetheless. I got third place in the class, one kid got a 3 and his father got a 1. Not bad at all.

Come Monday, I go to the MVC to get my license, then take my bike to get inspected at Kilmer station. Passed with flying colors. There is so little involved with motorcycle inspection. I then rode it to class which was exhilarating.

Overall I was very pleased with the class. Definately worth every penny. I believe that I have learned techniques that can very well save my life in the event that I am presented with the need to use them. Although I have my license now, I must say that I still feel like I can learn a lot more about riding. I want to get a bigger bike (my 125 won’t cut it for long) and learn more when I have a bigger one. This class was so much fun, and although everyone passed but one, I think everyone in that class, including me, can benefit from the A or B-BRC refresher class.

I’d like to thank my instructors Renee and Blaise for helping me out as well as the entire class and having the patience to introduce alot of people to the sport of motorcycling. Hopefully one day I can take another class or something with a bike other than my GN125! Haha. ANYWAYS, I 110% strongly suggest taking this class, if you have your permit, have a license but never took the class, or are just interested in motorcycles. The skills you learn will last you a lifetime, and it is alot of fun in the process too!

If you have any questions about the class, I would be happy to answer them at jlink2@pride.hofstra.edu, or crossoutthestars@hotmail.com.

In praise of a long lost mechanical friend: a Norton P11 Ranger. The key to enjoying travel on a motorcycle isn’t how much or how little you carry, but rather making sure you carrying the right stuff and leave the rest of the crap back home, or in the trash. Experience, some reasoned forethought and a little route planning can replace bags and bags of garbage strapped on the bike.

Heck, my old Norton herself was pretty much stripped down to the essentials — and it didn’t start off with a whole lot, because it was the manufacture’s version of what we used to call a scrambler – a slightly civilized desert-sled. It was the bastard offspring of an incestuous union between a Matchless scrambler frame and the 750cc Norton Atlas engine. The Norton PII Ranger had lots of torque all hauled to a stop by a couple of dinky things the Limeys blithely referred to as brakes — what a joke!

Henry David Thoreau once said (actually the “David” part of his name is reputed to be a librarian’s invention), “A man is rich in proportion to the things he can leave alone.” If ol’ Henry David had ridden motorcycles, he’d probably have ended up with something along the lines of my cherished P11 Norton — of course, Thoreau would have described it much more poetically.

During the months of fire-roading as a young sergeant out behind Fort Benning in Georgia, I had managed to lose both of my Norton’s fenders. And once they came off the bike, I never found time to replace `em. The Norton Ranger never did have a windshield, nor proper highway pegs and the mufflers had been replaced by little shorty open-pipes, in which I eventually stuffed some smallish beer-can baffles when I decided to put her back on public roads — the cops seemed more sensitive to noise pollution back then than they are these days.

The tail light and license plate were just tack-welded to the trailing edge of a rather inhumane platform, which the English manufacturer insisted was a twin-seat. She was a bit untamed, very primitive, but quite amenable nevertheless, and when once again street legal, but only barely, I think ol’ Henry David would have felt right at home.

With a short wheelbase, light weight and 60hp, man could that Ol’Norton scoot — and if you felt the need, the she could wheelie half way across the continent. Physically, the old girl was about the size of an underfed 350cc. Although she was pretty basic, I worked on her regularly to keep all the parts singing that “ker-thump-ker-thump” cadence which is just as characteristic of Limey twins, as the celebrated “potato-potato” rhythm is to Wisconsin products. I kept her just clean enough that she didn’t usually look like a rat-bike, at least to me. That old girl was the most fun bike I ever had — maybe, that there ever was!

My last Norton a few years later, even though it was one of the more gentlemanly Commando models, never had quite the character or affability of my PII Ranger. My Ranger was more like a companion than a machine — certainly more like a living, breathing house-pet than a mere mechanical contrivance. She was a joy for short jaunts around the back roads of the South and she was also my ticket to see whatever lay over the Western horizon. Even though she weighed only a little over 400 pounds with a full tank of gas, that sweet old bike carried me reasonably reliably night or day, in rain or shine, as well over half-way across the continent and back on a couple of occasions.

I rode that old girl on the beaches of Padre Island, Texas, across Georgia one very, very foggy night in the gas-rationing days, down to the panhandle of Florida once or twice, and even around in the winter snows of North Dakota on an occasion or two, as well as through the old southern, and rather unneighborly apathy, of rural (very) Mississippi — not to mention striking out to California once or twice only to get waylaid by affectionate bar-maidens in southern Texas, as well as shepherding me through on many enjoyable day trips through old Dixie, for as far as my time, gas and imagination could take me. Of course, I was well over a quarter century younger back then. However, “simple” was the preferred method then, and today it is still the best way in my book.

For me, keeping warm means a lined pair of gloves that will cut the wind, putting the liner in my textile jacket but more importantly keeping my neck warm. It appears simple but this one is tricky since you must keep warm but still allow your head to move to do those life saving shoulder checks! I’m usually able to do this with a thin wool scarf wrapped around my neck. Properly dressed I ride whenever there is no frost on the road. Last year, that meant November 30th! I’m hoping to be able to beat this and ride to work in December (thing I could have done but I had already winterized t my SV650S).

Safe riding!

-Louis Savard