The First Time Is the Worst Time
The ffrst time is the worst time
EDITORIAL
EVERY TIME I HEAR THE EXPRESSION "mixed emotions," I can't help but think back to one of the most frustrating but rewarding times of my life: when I was teaching rank, I've-never-done-this-before beginners how to ride a motorcycle.
By my best guess, I've given maybe 200 people their first riding lessons, most of them while I was involved with a couple of motorcycle dealer ships in Pittsburgh during the late Sixties. The fabled motorcycle boom was just getting into top gear then, and it wasn't unusual for us to sell a dozen or more little 50s and 1OOs in a single day-most of them to people who didn't know if they were supposed to sit behind the handlebars or on top of them. There were no formal rider-training programs back then, and Pennsylvania hadn't yet instituted a separate operator's license for motorcyclists. But someone had to give those people enough basic in structions so they'd have a fighting chance of surviving their first ride.
As often as not, that someone was me. Which is not to say that I was a one-man forerunner of the Motorcy cle Safety Foundation. To the con trary, I was not formally schooled in rider-education, had no training aids to work with, and conducted my "les Sons" either in our claustrophobic littie parking lot or the dead-end alley next to the shop. It was just me, the bike, the new rider and the most sim plistic of one-on-one instruction.
But it seemed to work. By accident as much as anything else, I had developed a technique that enabled just about anyone to get up to a minimum level of competence before wobbling off into the sunset. Some students did tax my resourcefulness-as well as my patience-before getting the hang of things. And, of course, there was the occasional scuffed knee or scraped elbow; but 95 percent of the time, nothing got bruised but egos. But it seemed to work. By accident as much as anything else, I had developed a technique that enabled just about anyone to get up to a minimum level of competence before wobbling off into the sunset. Some students did tax my resourcefulness—as well as my patience—before getting the hang of things. And, of course, there was the occasional scuffed knee or scraped elbow; but 95 percent of the time, nothing got bruised but egos.
As I look back on all of that, I get a good laugh thinking about the bizarre mishaps that occurred during some of those lessons. At the time, though, I didn't think most of them were funny at all. A few incidents in particular almost gave me heart failure as I watched what Ijust knew was going to be a disaster of front-page-headline proportions. But in the end, no one ever sustained an injury that couldn't As I look back on all of that, I get a good laugh thinking about the bizarre mishaps that occurred during some of those lessons. At the time, though, I didn’t think most of them were funny at all. A few incidents in particular almost gave me heart failure as I watched what I just knew was going to be a disaster of front-page-headline proportions. But in the end, no one ever sustained an injury that couldn’t be treated with a bottle of mercuro chrome and a box of Band-Aids.
The most miraculous escape trom the jaws of death was by a 21 -year-old ironworker who, after claiming that he rode "all the time," launched his just-bought H-D 250 Sprint out of the alley and onto the main drag in front of the shop, on one wheel and totally out of control. As he barged into mid-day traffic at a right angle, he missed the rear end of a mail truck by inches, the front end of a trolley car by millimeters, and finally slid to a stop, on his side and in a shower of sparks, between two parked cars.
He came back into the alley a changed young man who admitted that he had never before ridden a motorcycle. As if we couldn't have guessed. After an hour of instruction, he was piloting his Harley like he had been doing it for months. He came back into the alley a changed young man who admitted that he had never before ridden a motorcycle. As if we couldn’t have guessed. After an hour of instruction, he was piloting his Harley like he had been doing it for months.
That wasn't the only incident that forever etched itself in my memory. For obvious reasons, I'll never forget the kid on the Vespa scooter who panicked during his first ride and center-punched the side of my monthold car parked alongside the shop. Or the middle-aged gent who picked up his feet and put them on the pegs before letting out the clutch, which caused his 160 Honda to topple on its side. The funny part was that he never moved a muscle or attempted to break his fall; he instead stayed frozen in place all the way to the ground, hands on the grips and feet on the pegs, just like the guy who used to crash his tricycle on "Laugh-In." That wasn’t the only incident that forever etched itself in my memory. For obvious reasons, I’ll never forget the kid on the Vespa scooter who panicked during his first ride and center-punched the side of my monthold car parked alongside the shop. Or the middle-aged gent who picked up his feet and put them on the pegs before letting out the clutch, which caused his 160 Honda to topple on its side. The funny part was that he never moved a muscle or attempted to break his fall; he instead stayed frozen in place all the way to the ground, hands on the grips and feet on the pegs, just like the guy who used to crash his tricycle on “Laugh-In.”
There also was the guy on the Yamaha 80 who was so busy looking to one side, watching those who were There also was the guy on the Yamaha 80 who was so busy looking to one side, watching those who were
watching him, that he rode under a big signboard that was about four feet off the ground. The sign cleaned him right off the bike, which continued on its own for 50 yards or so. And particularly amusing was the college girl who, while in the middle of her first lesson, rode off on her Honda S-90 and never came back. She called a few weeks later to tell us that she had been riding every day to and from school, a round-trip of about eight miles, and wanted to know how much longer it would be before she could shift out of first gear. watching him, that he rode under a big signboard that was about four feet off the ground. The sign cleaned him right off the bike, which continued on its own for 50 yards or so. And particularly amusing was the college girl who, while in the middle of her first lesson, rode off on her Honda S-90 and never came back. She called a few weeks later to tell us that she had been riding every day to and from school, a round-trip of about eight miles, and wanted to know how much longer it would be before she could shift out of first gear.
Odd as it may seem, I got tremendous satisfaction from helping slowlearners like that eventually figure out how to ride competently. But the best rewards of all came years later, when I would learn of the on-bike accomplishments of various people who had first ridden under my tutelage. A 23-year-old who was dominating Western Pennsylvania motocross in 1974 had been one of my students in 1968; a top productionbike racer in the area had gone through my parking-lot program five years earlier; an ISDT hopeful (he never made it) had first piloted a bike in the aforementioned dead-end street while I ran alongside him shouting encouragement; and I'll a!ways remember a particularly hardto-teach student who claimed that the perseverence I had shown while I was teaching him inspired him to become a motorcycle-riding instructor at a local community college. Odd as it may seem, I got tremendous satisfaction from helping slowlearners like that eventually figure out how to ride competently. But the best rewards of all came years later, when I would learn of the on-bike accomplishments of various people who had first ridden under my tutelage. A 23-year-old who was dominating Western Pennsylvania motocross in 1974 had been one of my students in 1968; a top productionbike racer in the area had gone through my parking-lot program five years earlier; an ISDT hopeful (he never made it) had first piloted a bike in the aforementioned dead-end street while I ran alongside him shouting encouragement; and I’ll always remember a particularly hardto-teach student who claimed that the perseverence I had shown while I was teaching him inspired him to become a motorcycle-riding instructor at a local community college.
I know, of course, that anything those people achieved was due to their talent and dedication, and not the result of their brief encounter with me. But just like a proud parent who has helped his children with their first steps, I still got a nice, warm feeling inside from knowing that I had guided those riders in their very first moments aboard a motorcycle. I know, of course, that anything those people achieved was due to their talent and dedication, and not the result of their brief encounter with me. But just like a proud parent who has helped his children with their first steps, I still got a nice, warm feeling inside from knowing that I had guided those riders in their very first moments aboard a motorcycle.
Besides, I didn't always have to wait years for my rewards. Like the time three attractive sisters came into the shop and bought a trio of 100cc Yamaha streetbikes. After I gave each of them their initial riding instructions, they insisted that I come over to their apartment for some, uh, "advanced" training. Besides, I didn’t always have to wait years for my rewards. Like the time three attractive sisters came into the shop and bought a trio of lOOcc Yamaha streetbikes. After I gave each of them their initial riding instructions, they insisted that I come over to their apartment for some, uh, “advanced” training.
Well, as I said earlier, it was a tough, thankless job; but dammit, somebody had to do it. -Paul Dean Well, as I said earlier, it was a tough, thankless job; but dammit, somebody had to do it. —-Paul Dean
