Am I any good at this?

Or, Who Do I Think I Am? And What Was I Thinking?

My first real ride, on my very first bike, happened moments after I bought the thing. This was in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, at Power Brokers in 2016. I had my dad with me because I had no clue what I was doing.

The bike he thought I should get was a Suzuki V-Strom, a really nice bike and, had I got it, would have slotted me into a more adventure-style riding. It looked like a motorcycle, sure, but without the classic, American made, Easy Rider vibe that makes motorcycles so seductive. And the damn thing was huge (to my unsophisticated eye). I sat on it with Jim, the sales guy, in front of me holding the handlebars so the bike stood upright, the gas tank  impossibly wide before me.

A few months earlier I had taken my motorcycle safety course on a little 250 Honda Nighthawk, a bike that I could lift off the ground while standing more or less upright (unlike the back into the seat, squatting down to use your knees, your whole damn body heaving the thing up). The V-Strom under me was double, triple the size and gently leaned me into more of a sport-bike position (think all those guys named Kyle riding around with their ball caps turned backwards laying on the gas tank). I wanted to sit back and enjoy the ride, at the very least sit up straight.

So the V-Strom was not for me. But what was: the 2012 Honda NC700X. It was not as broad as the V-Strom, although taller (more on the consequences of that later). It kept me in a more upright posture and sitting there with Jim holding the handlebars so I could imagine the wind on my face felt good.

When I test drove it in the parking lot I was terrified, but as with everything in my motorcycling career, my strategy has been to push myself into a place where there is no alternative but to get on with it (ie, talk a big game calmly while emphasizing the feasibility of a thing – surely it’s reasonable to think that someone could do this, maybe not me, but someone – and the range of insane things people will let you do is nearly limitless). I made a few loops just like in the motorcycle safety course, but then I stalled the bike and the loss of momentum set me off balance. I went down with the bike.

Dad and Jim ran over to help. I was scuffed, so were the hard bags and handlebar guards, but they got the bike back up and I did a few more turns. And dumped the bike. We got it back up and adrenaline prevents me from remembering exactly how it was, but, instead of leaving the bike there to later pick it up with a trailer, it was decided that dad and I would ride the bikes home. I think I was instrumental in making this happen.

Like an animal stalking itself with the intent to kill, I wanted to ride this bike home. So we did. On the interstate. Going 80 miles an hour.

I was gripping the handlebars like I would choke them out. In fact my whole body was clenched unto snapping. I know my teeth were chattering and limbs tingling even in the summer heat. But the thing was, I did it. I had managed to ride the bike without mishap down the interstate going 80 miles an hour. We were home after two hours on the road with my new bike in the driveway, bug guts all over the windshield, my helmet, my boots and my knuckles.

At some points on the ride, I remembered to relax, to breathe, and to enjoy the exhilaration of seeing the pavement blur right under my feet while I tore over it on a little metal engine with a seat. All of nature was right there in my face, blowing through my sleeves, flapping my jeans at my shins. I was flying through it like a goddamn bird, a really fast one.

I got off that bike, which I would later name Hoss, and  the first and loudest thing echoing in my mind: This is really fucking cool.