"I am terrified of humiliation - This fear has prevented me from trying many new things and is the principle reason I do not have a motorcycle license."
Well, settle 'round children, and I'll tell you my motorcycle story.
A long time ago, in 1990, before some of you were born, when I was young and just a little foolish, I had the hots for a bike. A big bike, not a dirt bike, or a little 650 something, I wanted a big girl's bike. And lo and behold, a friend of mine who had connections down in Statesboro, GA (yeap, the town that the Allman Brothers sang about), found and bought a bike at a county auction. It was the kind of bike I'd always dreamed about. Oh yeah, it was a copcycle, like the CHiPs bikes, the lovely white with black trim Police Edition KZ1000 Kawasaki. It had been laid down hard, and the chrome had been scraped off of one of the guard bars, and the saddle bag on that side was not in the best shape, but, it was a fine looking bike.
He worked on it a little bit, tuned it up, dressed it back up a little, cleaned up where the county had removed the lights and siren, and offered it to me. Because, he knew, I had the hots for that bike. And he made a little profit, and I got the bike.
I had to put new tires on it. I had to polish the windshield. I replaced the old tractor seat with a new tractor seat, and got myself a new white pearl Shoei helmet, and a decent jacket. And there was NO doubt, I was born to be wild.
Now this was a big bike. It had floorboards. It sat like an easy chair. I could ride to hell, and be able to walk straight when I got there. Oh god, that bike was comfortable.
And it being an older bike, and already having some road scars, I didn't cry too much, when I had to kick start it one afternoon in the driveway, and dumped it in the gravel. I got over that.
And I got over the humiliation that came when I was waiting for a parking space at Drug Emporium, and forgot that my feet were on the running boards and not the asphalt, and oh, just fell over. I never, ever had trouble getting assistance uprighting my bike, no matter where I fell over. And everyone always apologized to me, like it was their fault that I forgot to put my feet down. I'm cute as hell now, but then? I was a knockout, there is no other explaination.
I took the Motorcycle Safety Foundation Class that the State Patrol had just started to offer at Dekalb College. I passed, on a little bitty 250 Honda, that the State supplied for everyone to ride in the class. Not at all like the Kawasaki. It was a two weekend class, and the last day of the class, I rode the Kawasaki to school, and the Commissioner (or whatever he was) of the GA State Patrol was there, watching the end of the class. There were a couple of little frufru girls there (they were the first people that I'd ever seen drinking Evian water), a bunch of big ol' boys, and me.
I got my little certificate, and was headed out the door, and the Commissioner looks at me as some of these little boys are whizzing out of the parking lot on their little sports bikes, and says to me, with an absolutely straight face, "You be careful out there, you've got a lot more between your legs than they do." The teachers of the class looked at him hard, and his assistant elbowed him, and the Commissioner blushed bright red, and huffed, "You know what I mean..."
Oh, yes, I sure did...cause I had a big girl's bike.
The next week, I rode lots. I learned to adjust my clothing to stay warm in the morning, and cool in the afternoon. I had learned to lean into the corners, and keep my eyes level with the horizon, to countersteer, to brake consistently. I'd learned to be aware, and to be safe.
There is this lovely little part of Newton County called Spring Hill, the roads are windy, the road is nicely paved, and the area, at the time, was heavily forested and cool even on a hot summer afternoon. I'd come off of a stop, and was on the main road home, and a Pinto was chugging along up ahead of me. I thought, wow, he's moving slow, I'm going to be able to practice that acceleration and passing stuff...
And sure enough, I come up close, and this guy is not looking where he is going, he's looking back at me. He's going slower and slower, and I'm smug thinking to myself, he thinks I'm a cop on this bike, with this white helmet, but, sheeze, he could move a little faster.
We were going through some tight corners, and he kept watching me. And being young and foolish, I thought he was thinking , yeah, she's looking good back there. I had on steel toe boots, jeans, purple tee, and I was long and lean, and yeah, I could imagine, yeah, I'm looking good, buddy, just keep looking.
Finallllly we get to a straightaway. I see a couple of electric company trucks coming over the hill approaching me, but this guy in the Pinto is doing all of 30, in a 55 mph zone. And he's still watching me. So, I pull back on the accelerator, and begin my pass.
I look over at him, during the pass, and his window is down, and his mouth is open, looking at me as I go past. I look back in my mirror, pull back into my lane, and he's still staring at me.
And even though I've pulled back into my lane, these two EMC trucks pull off on the shoulder on their side of the road. As I go past them, I lift my hand to wave, and these guys in these two trucks are all watching me go by with their mouths open. Like they'd never seen a woman on a motorcycle....
And as I started to accelerate away, from all of this, I look down at my speedometer. It had kicked up to an easy 65, and I noticed something else. I could see the outside of my helmet from inside.
And then it hit me. I couldn't see the outside of my helmet from inside. I looked down again, and my tshirt had rolled itself up under my arms, and was hitched up all across my chest and bra, and I had just flashed a guy in a Pinto, and two EMC crews.
So, I learned I needed to wear a shirt TUCKED in when I was on a bike. The next day, I wore a nice long white tshirt and tucked it in carefully before I left work the next afternoon.
It started raining halfway home, and that white tshirt held no secrets when I finally pulled into my neighborhood.
That's my motorcycle story. And I'm sticking with it.
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