A gas-powered motorcycle was invented by the German inventor Gottlieb Daimler in 1885. His mostly wooden motorcycle had iron-banded wheels with wooden spokes. This bone-crunching vehicle was powered by a single-cylinder engine. Some fifteen minutes after his first test ride, his son asked, “Hey Dad, can I have the bike tonight?” Daimler is said to have replied, “Gott in Himmell! Not vhile you are livink in my house!”
So the kid snuck the keys and went for a ride anyway, crashing into the garage door when he returned home and bending the iron-banded front wheel. Shortly after, he started running with a bad crowd and listening to hip-hop. He also got a tattoo that said, "Ride hard, Die frei."
And so was born the motorcycle and the ambivalent attitude among enthusiasts anytime a loved one indicates a desire to learn to ride. Such was the case for me after we bought the Vino and Mary said she wanted to get her endorsement so she could ride the scooter to school and around town. I could hardly say no since this had been the essence of my sales pitch in the first place. I was even thinking ahead to when she would want her own motorcycle and I would help her pick out an appropriate first bike, say a Ducati Monster or a Triumph Speed Triple.
One thing at a time, though, and two weeks ago, Mary completed with flying colors the demanding Beginning Rider course offered by Team Oregon, a program co-sponsored by the DMV, Oregon State University, and The Gypsy Jokers, who have moved to Klamath Falls and are trying to become more active in community service.
For three full days, she sat through demanding classroom lectures and quizzes (“Never pass a snow plow on the right. In fact, never ride your motorcycle in the winter. In fact, never ride your motorcycle during a month that has an R in it.”)
When they weren’t in the classroom, they performed demanding maneuvers in the parking lot involving dump trucks pulling in front of you, deer leaping out from cover when you’re riding a forest road at a buck-twenty, and minivans drifting into your lane while the driver talks on her cell phone, applies makeup in the mirror, and slaps at the kid in back who is screaming because his sister won’t stop looking at him.
Mary’s experience on horses served her well, and she completed all the maneuvers successfully. She was particularly good at looking through the turns rather than fixing on obstacles such as potholes the size of a suckling pig or the lifelike baby dolls instructors would sometimes thrown a few feet in front of unsuspecting riders. “Baby in the road!!”
Monday after work, Mary went to DMV and got her motorcycle endorsement, which costs seventy dollars but they knock off ten bucks if you sign a organ donor card. On Tuesday, she rode the Vino to work unaccompanied, and I know how great it feels to arrive in full regalia: helmet, gloves, and a worn leather jacket to die for. Nothing is more gratifying than the admiration of children: “Hey, Ross,” as a neighbor boy called out when I recently rode into my driveway on my VFR. “You’re a cool old man!” (This is true.)
And, of course, Mary received lots of admiring comments about the Vino from colleagues: “It’s so cute!”
Things turned a little sour when she got home and tried to turn around in our narrow street to get a good straight run up our driveway and into the garage. Despite my calls to “Look up! Look up! Agghhh!” she fixed on the opposite curb and did a Laugh In style tip-over that wounded only her pride and left a few rough scratches on the beautiful cabernet finish of the Vino. (Maybe it’s more of a burgundy. Definitely not a claret. )
“It happens to everybody. Don’t be a wuss,” I said, trying to cheer her up in guy fashion. She coached me in how not to be a male idiot. “Say, ‘You must feel terrible about your accident.’” So I said that and she felt better but was still pretty deflated by the whole thing.
With the beautiful fall weather, though, we anticipate lots of opportunities for training outings together, her on the Vino and me riding behind on the VFR, trying not to fry the clutch as she grows comfortable at higher speeds such as seventeen miles per hour.
Meanwhile, we still rarely use the car or truck. One of us grabs the electric bicycle in the morning and the other uses the Vino, and a big gas week for all vehicles combined might be ten bucks.
With gas prices dropping rapidly in recent weeks, I’ve been thinking about picking up a Hummer for running errands, but I’ll probably hold off until after the election when I expect major oil companies to discover they forgot to carry the six in their estimates of strategic oil reserves, causing prices to soar once again.
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