In the pantheon of iconic males, one thing seems constant: a motorcycle. From Brando's wild ride to McQueen's high-flying escape to Fonda's easy riding, there are certain movie moments of machismo that every boy and man lives vicariously though, hoping to one day emulate. Sometimes, these captains of cool ride closer to home.
My father's first two-wheeled motoring experiences were not born to be wild, but born of necessity, as he bought for a pittance and repaired a lengthy list of Vespa and Lambretta scooters as a young man in Dublin. He later graduated to motorcycles, which became a vehicle for marriage. He and my mother honeymooned throughout Europe on a fresh out-of-the-box 1977 Suzuki GS400.
Years later, my brother, who has long channeled a Knievel-esque kindred spirit, got his first yearning for two-wheeled automation. It started innocently enough with a moped, and now, more than a decade later, has grown to a Honda CBR600, which has been modified so that each ride closely approximates the act of willingly mounting oneself on an ICBM.
Perhaps it was pictures of my father atop his 1970 Lambretta GP150 near the Arc De Triomphe, too many viewings of Quadrophenia or a fear of launching myself into a tree, but vintage scooters, not motorcycles, have literally been more my speed for years. More important, riding and restoring scooters (read: tinkering and asking for lots of help from people more mechanically inclined) has brought me many new friends, and given my father, brother and I even more to talk about. It was my younger brother who taught me how to first ride, and he's helped me with more than a few scooter building projects.
However, always lingering in the back of my head was the call to step up to motorcycles. Nearly all the riders I know and respect, including my brother, insisted that the Motorcycle Safety Foundation Basic Rider Course was a necessity. I tend to default to experts.
After years of riding with a temporary permit, this past weekend, I took the three-day MSF course offered by Liberty Harley-Davidson in Boston Heights. The first day consisted of four hours of classroom instruction, while the second and third days, Saturday and Sunday, from 8 am to 4 pm, put the class on bikes – really fun Buell Blasts, to be more precise.
Proving that cool is not discriminatory, the class brought together a diverse group of men and women, young and old, novices and experienced riders looking for a refresher course. I took the course with three friends. On the morning of the first day, in a hilarious combination of first day jitters and unfamiliarity, I stalled my bike roughly half a dozen times.
By the end of the second day, I was comfortable with controlled emergency braking, tight cornering, the dreaded double U-turn in a box, swerve avoidance techniques and more skills I'd never have developed on my own. In short, I became more confident as a rider. More over, I was more in touch with my abilities, aware of my threshold, and more prepared for the open road than I'd ever been. The instructors, Joe Pletikapich and Kevin Shorie, were fantastic, not only in their patience throughout the exercises, but also in their ability to explain and demonstrate the skills required. They were encouraging and any nugget – of which there were many – of rider wisdom that they shared was much appreciated. I passed the riding exam with flying colors, and I had a great time with friends. My clutch hand is a bit sore, but my only regret is not having taken the course sooner.
I fear maturity is rearing its sensible head. I think looking cool while riding starts with knowing how to ride safely. Anybody can hop on a bike, shift into gear and roll the throttle, but proper technique begins with expert instruction and supervised, dedicated skill development. The fun part is putting those skills to practice. The best part is having an avenue of enjoyment that requires all your thought and attention. I think the honeymoon just started.
