Dennes Dale Boon, who would’ve been 57 last week, had the portly sage of San Pedro not died in a van accident at the age of 27, would likely have termed me an “anxious mofo”. And if I’ve externally mellowed with age, I’m certainly still often a knot of torqued-up doubt and inherited Hiberno-Teutonic worry. I’m also a terrible student, despite my love of learning. Needless to say, I was a little cranked over with angst about my Motorcycle Safety Foundation Basic Rider Course.
Still, I woke up pre-dawn and swaddled myself in my most waterproof protective gear, as precipitation was on the menu that day. The clouds had rolled in over the Coast Range, leaving a pink strip on the eastern horizon above the Sierra Nevada. The Ramones’ “Do You Remember Rock ’n’ Roll Radio?” popped up on satellite radio. I was bopping along in a Dodge Challenger Scat Pack, Chrysler Hemi underfoot, the sun streaming in through the rear window. Aside from the impending rain, all was boding well—until Elvis Costello’s “Accidents Will Happen” came up next. Thanks, SiriusXM. Thanks a lot.
Once the course started and I was riding the provided loaner bike, the next day and a half was pretty miserable. When the rain cleared up and the sun came out, I was steaming in my gear. Unable to raise the faceshield on my fancy Arai Signet-Q due to eye-protection rules on the range, I was wishing for an open-face helmet and some sunglasses, just for the few square inches of evaporative cooling the setup would offer. In retrospect, I’d recommend a full-face motocross helmet and impact-resistant sunglasses for anyone considering the MSF course. Suddenly, those who’d shown up in the bare minimum of econo gear were looking smart. I was the ATGATT asshole stinking up the joint. We drilled low-speed maneuvers ad nauseam. Most of the nausea derived from sitting in line, sucking fumes from the rear of the old Ninja 250 ahead of me. Riding toward the instructor freaked me out. I was less nervous flat-out over the crest at Laguna in a fast car than I was trying to nail a panic stop from 15 mph riding straight into a human being employed to critique my roadcraft.
The thing is, when the time came to ride away from the instructor, I’d pootle off through the slalom, ticking up through the little Kawasaki Eliminator’s gears like I’d been riding for years. My body knew exactly what it was doing, but my mind was playing havoc with my mastery of the bike.
At one point, an instructor pulled me aside and said, “Look, I’ve watched you when you’re not in the middle of an exercise. You’re a good rider. You just need to get out of your head.” But I was deep in the most frustrated recesses of my brain, convinced that a) I knew what I was doing and b) I was wholly unable to execute it with any precision under the watchful eye of authority—the men who would decide whether the State of California would add an M endorsement to my license.
When it came time for the riding test, they assembled the group asked if anybody wanted to bail out, offering them the chance to come back for more instruction. I considered it. But something inside told me to get it over with. So ahead I went, dabbing a rear paw on the S-turn-in-a-box exercise, describing an imperfect arc during the long turn, and coming to rest just a smidge too far across the line during the panic stop. I took my driver’s test on my 16th birthday and scored 100 percent. At that point, I’d been driving a car for about four months. I earned my M1 endorsement after about 12 hours of sitting on a bike, having never been beyond the bottom of third gear, having never dealt with traffic. As there is with driver education in this country, there’s a real problem with motorcycle instruction—but that’s a topic for future articles.
After the V7 arrived, I stuck to the back roads and tried to stay out of traffic. Although I knew intellectually that more motorcyclists are killed on city streets than on freeways, the interstates terrified me. So I’d meander out Auburn-Folsom Road up into the foothills, then putter up State Route 49 out toward Placerville. My grandmother, visiting from Ireland, discovered my first tooth out there at Coloma, where John Marshall found gold. One could well argue that modern California was born on this stretch of road. I had no time for socio-historical jibber-jabber during these early jaunts. I was holding on for dear life, hoping not to leave any teeth behind.
One afternoon, on a whim, I figured I’d get a few miles in before a rainstorm swept through. A series of wrong turns meant to shorten my route led me back to 49. There’s a sign for Rattlesnake Bar on Auburn-Folsom. There’s a Rattlesnake Bar Road that trickles west from 49. Bingo. Nine miles down a paved path strewn with ruts, dry pine needles, loose dirt and gravel, Rattlesnake Bar Road dead-ended at a campground. A look at the map revealed why: An unbridged finger of Folsom Lake, fed by the North Fork of the American River, splits the area in two. There was no choice but to reverse course.
Darkness had fully descended. About three miles back up the road, a bugeye WRX pulled out behind me and its driver clearly knew where he was going. So I rode like I had never ridden before. In retrospect, the bits of technique deployed seem laughable, but it was some kind of test, more than anything, of my own mettle. Would I drop the thing? Would I get home, call the nice people at Moto Guzzi and say, “Dudes, I’m sorry, but here’s your bike back”?
Inclement conditions, degraded road surfaces, elevation changes with blind crests into corners, unfamiliar terrain; I was too busy to be properly scared. I began to trust the bike more as I hustled it back toward the highway, the Rex on my tail. I should’ve pulled over and let him by, but there weren’t many decent turnouts until the road improved. My rear barely touching the saddle, my legs absorbing the jolts. Eyes up and through the next corner. Stoked that I was getting it, but too intent on the task at hand to derive any real joy. Hubris is the enemy of good health on one of these machines. I hadn’t intended to be out after dark. I was wearing light gloves. My hands began to freeze in as speed turned the mild winter evening air frigid. The yellow centerline returned. The pavement improved. I headed for home. The rain hit when I was about six miles from the house.
I peeled off my dripping gear and hung it in the bathroom. I’d survived MSF. I’d survived Rattlesnake Bar. I was tentative, new, and frightened, but strangely unbowed and looking forward to a day when it would click all the time. Looking ahead to the day when being on the bike wasn’t a constant fight. I had a strange faith that it’d come. I just wasn’t sure when.
What I learned: On a motorcycle, relaxation is not just an asset, it’s a necessity.
Don’t do what I did: If a storm’s coming, don’t think you can outrun it. Go ahead and dress for it.
Previously: An experiment in motorcycling.
Up Next: An attempted meditation on simplicity turns into frigid frustration on the Sonoma Coast!
Year of the Goose is West Coast editor Davey G. Johnson’s dive into the two-wheeled world. Spending a year on a Moto Guzzi V7 Stone, he’s exploring life with a bike as a new rider, talking motorcycles and culture with figures large and small, and ultimately figuring out how riding can help you be faster in a car.
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