cars news 10: Completing California’s Motorcycle Safety Program

I’ve wanted to learn to ride a motorcycle ever since I can remember. I can’t quite explain why exactly I wanted to get on two wheels, but I’m pretty sure the urge is related to the very same urges that had me begging my grandfather to let me drive his ride-on lawnmower as a kid. I, like you (probably), just love things with engines and wheels. I won’t discriminate just because it has two wheels or 22.

After nearly 28 years of talking about it, I’ve finally taken the first serious step to getting on two wheels legally—I took and passed the California Motorcycle Safety Program, waiving my requirement to take the DMV’s ridden test and putting me inches from my motorcycle endorsement.

The course, done through the Total Control program in California after the Motorcycle Safety Foundation curriculum was replaced, costs about $260 and takes just three days to complete. The first day is a classroom session, the second is a riding and classroom session, and the third is a riding session and the test.

Although the class is designed for new riders, about half of my class had prior motorcycling experience. Some had been riding dirt bikes for years off-road and were looking to get legal and on the streets. Others were experienced motorcyclists looking for refreshers after a few years on the street or after bad accidents.

My motorcycle experience was on the more limited side. Although I took a new rider course on a Ducati Monster 696 a couple years back, my first real hands-on experience on a motorcycle was at the tender age of 16. My best friend, Sean, and I had grown bored of driving his mom’s Jeep Liberty across their Westchester, New York lawn, so we decided to play with his dad’s, toys instead. We parked the Jeep, wandered into the garage, and decided that his dad’s beloved Harley-Davidson Sportster would do the trick. Sean popped it into neutral, and we walked the black Harley with its big sissy bar-mounted American and POW/MIA flags down the driveway to the street.

Sean, who I’m pretty sure came home from the hospital on the back of a Harley, decided he’d go first. Seemed fair—it was his life on the line if anything happened to the bike. He hopped on, turned the key, pulled the clutch in, toggled the ignition on, dropped the bike into first, and was off.

He was a natural—that asshole.

Now’s probably a good time to tell you that Sean and I are both super competitive with each other. It’s been that way since we met in the first grade. I’d run quickest in gym, and he’d run farther. He’d score a goal in hockey, and then I’d get a hat trick. And much later, I’d get an old Mustang GT, and he’d trade in his kickass L.L. Bean-edition Subaru Outback for a new WRX STI hatch.

You get the idea.

After riding expertly up and down the property line, Sean pulled up next to me and shut off the Harley.

My turn.

Sean walked me through the controls. Clutch on the left handle, shifter by my left foot, front brake on the right handle, throttle on the handgrip, and rear brake by my right foot.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—I know that, Sean.” (Well, at least that’s what Google had told me). “Walk me through the clutch.”

Sean and I might be competitive, but he’s a good friend, so he talked me through the clutch’s friction zone and how to lightly finesse the throttle by ever so slightly moving my right wrist to get going.

Sean double-checked the Harley’s five-speed was in neutral and cranked its iconic air-cooled V-Twin up for me.

I’d listened to Sean enough to know to pull the clutch in and to kick the transmission down into first, but I froze up and couldn’t remember what to do next. So I reasoned I’d treat it like I figured a manual-transmission car worked (I didn’t really know how to do that back then, either). I revved up the engine, began to let the clutch out too quickly, and started to pick my feet up way too early.

Next thing I know, his dad’s precious Harley was starting to pull away way faster than I’d intended, and I was fighting a losing battle with gravity. I was going over.

I still don’t know how Sean got to me as quickly as he did—maybe it was the thought of his life flashing before his eyes as his dad killed him for sneaking out on his Harley—but right as the bike’s handlebars were about to crash into the pavement—and me with it—Seangrabbed the clutch in one fluid motion, killed the ignition, and righted the bike.

We looked at each other like we’d just dodged a bullet. We quickly shifted the Sportster back into neutral and muscled the Harley back up the steep driveway and into the garage with our tails between our legs.

A little over a decade later, and I found myself on a lightweight Honda Rebel 250 in a West Los Angeles parking lot. My motorcycle safety course training was going far smoother on that trusty little Honda in the safe confines of the flat seat of asphalt. I managed to get through the two riding classes without dropping the trusty little Honda once, which is likely more of a testament to the Honda’s featherweight size compared to the Harley than any riding skill on my part. At any rate, I learned a ton and had a blast learning about motorcycle control negotiating that parking lot, weaving in and out of cones, and running through the Rebel’s gears.

I gained a ton of confidence over the classes, but more than anything I realized that this is just the beginning of my training, not the end. Just like passing your first performance driving school, when you pass your first motorcycle safety course, you now know just enough to seriously harm yourself and others; it’s a solid foundation, but it’s not the whole building.

After passing the course, I’ve got a renewed respect for our fellow road warriors slicing through traffic on two wheels. I’m eagerly looking forward to my return to two wheels on public roads (I’ve got my DMV written test scheduled), and this time I’m sure it’ll go far smoother than the time Sean and I snuck off to have some fun on his dad’s Harley.