first range day.

The next class night was about the same scenario, though we toured the dealership store before starting the reading for the evening. Since I had to buy a helmet, that worked out ok. We’d learned in my reading that helmet fit and color would contribute to my safety, bright colored helmets would make me more visible to other motorists. The choices of helmet color at the dealership included black. The other options were full face, ¾ helmets with visors or German half helmets. I tried on a full face helmet and felt like I was suffocating. My head was completely encased in multiple layers of padding, metal and other stuff. I looked like a Weeble as my head wobbled under the weight of that edifice. And I couldn’t breathe with the hatch closed. I ripped it off immediately. That one wouldn’t work, that’s for sure. That left a visored helmet or the Storm trooper model. I was pretty sure I wanted my image on a motorcycle to be somewhat softer than the nazi look, so I spent a while fitting my midget head into the right size ¾ helmet. And I still looked like Rick Moranis as Dark Helmet in that one. A hundred and fifty dollars later, I proudly carried my helmet up to class. We’d had to bring our safety equipment for approval, so I was pleased to see that the boys had similar gear.

Saturday brought the first day of training on a bike on the range. At 8am it was hot and sunny, 80 degrees at the start, climbing into the 90s by noon. My black helmet heated up like a nuclear reactor and having to wear gloves, boots, long sleeves and long pants I soon dripped with sweat.

I caught my breath seeing the line of motorcycles waiting for their victims. I couldn’t believe I was going to go through with this. I approached a bike, hardly hearing the instructors as they talked us through the first exercise. And that exercise was to push the bike around the course. Push it. Sit on it and push it with your feet. A 400 lb bike. The first exercise and I was exhausted. I’m not sure what the purpose of that was, but it served to turn me into a sweaty whining old woman. When we finally got to turn on the bikes, I no longer had any strength left.

The next exercise was to let out and pull in the clutch while we rolled back and forth side to side across the range. Let out, pull in. move a couple of feet. Let out pull in. move a little. At each end of the length, push the bike around to face the way you’ve come and do it again. Left hand half out, pull in. Hundreds of times. Over and over. Until my clutch hand got so tired and weak I was just letting it out and going. No one had warned me I would be working the clutch more than if I’d driven across the country. In an hour. My hand started to swell immediately.

Fortunately we got a rest after a while. I started soaking my clutch hand in the communal cooler full of ice and water. I noticed the boys shaking their clutch hands as well. I wasn’t alone in feeling the pain, but I was the only one with my hand in the cooler. As I sat in the shade, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in my shiny black helmet. Hair wet and helmet-like with sweat. Sweat dripping into my eyes, soaking my tshirt, my underwear, my socks, and squishing in my boots. I tried to discreetly unstick my underwear from my nooks and crannies, but there is no easy way to do it. The boys looked away, doing some adjustments of their own. We walked around like cowboys trying to dry off.