In January of this year, I totalled my 1999 Jeep Cherokee XJ — a vehicle which I am a huge fan of, personally, and one which I intend to own again in the future. However, having incidentally relieved myself of a certain financial burden, I took the opportunity to get my moneys in better shape. After which, I promptly walked into a motorcycle dealership, found a bike much too big for me, and took out a loan from my bank to buy it. I should also mention that at this time, I had never actually ridden a motorcycle.
After buying the bike, I took about a month to get around to registering it, and taking my permit test so that I could legally ride it. Waiting too long seems to be the norm for me. The bike, which I lovingly named Barabas, sat in front of my apartment and stared at me through my window. Once in while, I would pluck up enough courage to convince myself to take it to work in the morning — I often work opening shifts, which puts me on the road about four a.m., when very few other people are on the roads, and I felt this would be the best time to get practice. So, as I say, sometimes I would get up in the morning, pull on my jacket and gloves, squeeze my slightly too small helmet onto my head, swing a leg over the saddle, fire up Barabas’ 83 cubic inch V-twin, twist the throttle, and immediately stall my motorcycle. This happened several times, and always triggered a great deal of anger, anxiety, stress, and overall depression-inducing emotions in me. Never mind that I was a new rider, and had spent a great many hours in the saddle of a bicycle powered by my own legs that weighed about the same as my backpack, and was now trying to putter about on something nearly five times my own weight, with close to as much power at the rear wheel as my first car had. None of those things mattered to me. Failing at this seemingly simple task, made me a failure. And I gave up.
My friends were always very encouraging about the whole situation. No one gets it right away, they were quick to tell me, everything requires practice. I knew then that this was true, as I know now, yet it didn’t change my low opinion of myself, and my decision to give up on motorcycling and try to find a new home for Barabas. What it boiled down to, I said, was that I bought a bike that was simply too big. I should have got something smaller.
A month or so ago, my friend Nathan asked if he could borrow my bike to take his license test on, because his wasn’t starting. So he rode Barabas to his house, and I followed behind in his car one Tuesday evening before we had our community group. Once we got there, Nathan encouraged me to ride, and showed me some pointers. He lives in a pretty quiet neighbourhood, so I was able to get comfortable and ride around a bit, and I felt really good about it, honestly — even after I hit a curb in a turn and laid the bike down. With one mirror broken off and stuffed behind me, and a turn signal finagled back into place, I rode back to Nathan’s and told of my adventure. Next week I walked into Nathan’s living room and he told me my bike had stranded him on his way to work. In our very limited knowledge of such things, we were unable to discover the cause of this, and so we handed Barabas over to our motorcycle mechanic friend, Rodney.
After the line of bikes ahead of my own had diminished and Rodney had a chance to get Barabas on the lift, we learned that my motorcycle was lacking a key element: gasoline. (There’s more to that story, but we’ll leave the details for those intimately involved.)
Last night, Nathan and I were able to drive out to Rodney’s place and pick up the bike. Nathan rode it home, and I drove his car, of course. I planned on riding to church in the morning — an easy ride, just a bit over a mile. So, this morning, I put on my gear, started up the bike, and successfully piloted it from my front door to the exit of my apartment complex; about fifty feet or so. Then I killed it trying to turn into the street. Several times. Then I got it into the street, and laid it down before completing the turn. After hauling it back up (which took some effort), I started the bike again, and made me way down the road. Went through the green, continued to the next intersection, took a sloppy right turn, and kept going. At the next light, which is at a T intersection, I killed the bike again. Starting it up, again, I waited for the green, and took my turn — or tried to. What I actually did was move in a sort of wobbly straight line, and came closer than I would like to running over a lady who was walking on the path ahead of me, which was not my intention at all. I meant to turn left, of course. I don’t seem to be very good at that, however.
With the help of a friendly stranger, I moved Barabas to the side of the trail, tossed his mirror and turn signals on the ground next to him, and began walking the remaining half mile to church, helmet in hand. After service Nathan helped me bring the bike back to my apartment, and parked it in an out-of-the-way spot where it wouldn’t waste too much real estate. And that’s where it is now.
This is all very discouraging for me, but honestly, I know a huge part of it is just the financial side of the situation. I don’t own this bike, my bank does. I paid off my credit card after I wrecked my Jeep, and around that time had multiple people offering me vehicles, and I turned them all down because I had my heart set on buying a motorcycle. It seems in hindsight that nothing regarding this purchase decision has gone well since the start, and it feels like a sign to me. I really shouldn’t have bought this bike. Maybe someday I’ll own a smaller one (actually own it), and enjoy taking it out on nice weekends. But right now, I’m ready to have a car again. My body (and mind) is growing weary of riding a bicycle every day, and my motorcycle is nothing but a discouragement, and one which I reduce the value of every time I try to take it out. So, I’m pretty sure I’m going to stop trying.
And that’s where I’m at today. I feel better having shared the story. I also ought to be more thankful that I haven’t hurt myself or anyone else at all during all this stupidity. It goes to show what sorts of things I tend to focus on. Here’s to trying to do better, and being still alive.
— Joel