Motorcycle lesson hits dead end
AARON HARRIS/TORONTO STAR
Wheels columnist Lorraine Sommerfeld was an uneasy rider on the Humber College slalom course.
Zero degrees, still dark when I leave the house.
Borrowed helmet, old jeans, new boots, son's hoodie, boyfriend's leather jacket. Sunglasses I hope I'll need later, leather gloves that make me feel like a gladiator, and my newly minted M1 beginner motorcycle licence tucked into my pocket.
I will admit to some apprehension as I headed to the Mississauga Hershey Centre on a recent Saturday morning. Through the Humber College Motorcycle course, I was going to learn to ride. Their optimism at achieving this totally overshadowed my own; my last excursion on a bicycle had prompted my then-5-year-old son to ask, "Mom, you sure you should be doing that?"
Nineteen students in total, we covered a gamut of shapes and sizes: four women, several men my own age, one guy with a few more miles on him, and predominantly the 20-something lads with that look in their eye.
"We won't even be starting the bikes yet, so don't worry," said Mike Pankarican, a high school guidance counsellor and one of our four instructors. "First lesson is about balance; you'll team up, and take turns pushing each other to get a feel for the bike."
I quickly picked the smallest girl I could find – pushing much more than the bike itself for more than a few minutes would probably put me in traction.
For the life of me, I could not stay balanced on the bike. Another instructor, Hans Von Sallwurk, interceded on behalf of my poor partner, who gladly teamed up elsewhere.
As the rest of the class moved on, I found myself in my first, though certainly not last, remedial class of the weekend. I required an additional half hour just to learn to sit on the bike. The only thing I could work was the front brake, which I jammed on every time Hans got the bike moving. Forlornly, I watched the rest of the class move on, as I calmly, then loudly, announced that I could not do this.
"Sure you can," said Hans, who I believed to be the most delusional man I had ever met. "You need to believe in yourself – take the word `can't' out of your vocabulary."
This is how the instructors speak to you. All the time, and no matter how spectacularly badly you're doing.
All of a sudden, I got it.
"Hey! I'm doing it! It's working!" I yelled, forgetting that with the engine not running, it was Hans who was pushing me around and around the parking lot.
"Okay, great! You got it! Let's go join the others," he said, panting.
Instructor Liz Jansen took over with careful instruction in operating the clutch, gear shift and the front and rear brakes.
If you've never driven a car with a standard transmission, I weep for you trying to figure out the back-ass dynamics of shifting a bike. Left hand to pull in the clutch, then left foot down for first, then up through neutral to second, third, fourth and, apparently, fifth. I never did find fifth, though they assured me it was there, and people actually use it.
I soon realized my "motorcycle" experience – a scooter in Bermuda 20 years ago – would not be serving me well. I was acquainted with only two speeds. Stop and go.
I've taught people to drive a standard car. Well, I've tried. It mostly dissolves into me yelling in exasperation, "Well, you can just feel it!" Nobody yells here. They help you find the friction zone, and if you stall it – even a whole bunch of times – they smile and say they used to do it all the time.
Riding a motorcycle is about more than mastering the controls. With an immense amount of power at your fingertips, you have to focus on balance and maintain concentration in any circumstance. Those circumstances can change in a fraction of a second, and a momentary lapse can mean injury, or death. All four instructors maintain a constant, almost subliminal message of the necessity to keep full control of every aspect of the bike.
"Learn to manage your bike at very slow speeds," said Liz. "When you see a rider duck-walking their bike, it's not only uncool, it shows a lack of control." I duck-walked my bike to the gate: looking uncool was better than lying trapped beneath the machine, mewling like a kitten.
With the bikes warmed up (I was great with a choke – it was like starting my lawnmower), instructor Tom Villania showed us the slalom we would ride. Initially, I was relieved at the slow speeds they introduced. I am cautious by nature, and happily tooted out to the first cone of the slalom. And ran over it.
There is always one person in a class who makes you feel better about your own progress. While you may not actively cheer for their downfall, you can't help but appreciate that it's not you. It was me.
Everyone else mastered surfing through the slalom course. Liz gently suggested I go a little wider. Tom suggested I go to the other side of the parking lot and practise away from anything concrete. Hans reminded me to keep my knees together. I told him he sounded just like my mother.
Just as I made it through the slalom without nailing any pylons, we moved on to the next exercise: 90-degree turns, in first gear, using no throttle. This means you just feather the clutch, kind of inching the bike along. It's an excellent way to master control; the course is deliberate in teaching you some of the toughest manoeuvres that will ultimately lead to smooth, safe riding. It became apparent that if I embark on a motorcycle career, I will only be making left turns.
The most amazing thing I learned? On a motorcycle, you must look where you want to go. The second your eyes are in the wrong spot, you're done for. Your concentration must be total. I cannot believe how important it is to keep proper head position. As we learned to ride through curves, I fought against my instincts in order to quit fighting against the bike.
By 5 p.m., we were losing light, and so wrapped up the first day. Exhausted, everyone got a pep talk in preparation of the following day.
They don't like to mention it, but the second day ends with The Test – your instructors pull off their friendly hats and put on their Ministry Tester ones, and you perform the same test you would otherwise take at your licensing bureau.
The upside? Riders who participate in this type of instruction pass their M2 test with a rate around 90 per cent. Those who don't experience a miserable success rate.
Sunday started with sore muscles, a little trepidation that I would be taking the big exam in front of all these people, and not a little bravado as I expertly flung my leg over the bike. The Yamaha 250 Virago is a fairly short bike, so I was pretty much only impressing myself.
All day we practised. Swerving, smooth braking, sudden braking, cornering, entering curves, stopping in curves, exiting laneways, proper steering techniques, hand signals and speed control.
All day, the knowledge of the all-or-nothing test hung like a cloud. Like some mother hen, I assured the kids they would be fine, that nearly everyone passed and as long as they stayed focused, they would do great.
And then I flunked.
The only thing bruised was my ego, though that'll mend. I have the winter to decide if I'm really cut out for this – it's really not something you play around with.
Full licensing takes about two years, and there's a good reason for that. Riding a motorcycle on our crazy roads is an occupation to be done with discipline, dedication, concentration and maturity.
Wanting to do it isn't enough – you have to want to do it well.
Lorraine Sommerfeld appears Saturdays in Wheels and Mondays in Living. Reach her via her website lorraineonline.ca.
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