Experiences

Naah, make that "I, Motorcyclist."

For, as of a week ago, I have officially crossed the line from wannabe to newbie.

After taking the local equivalent of the MSF course, which you know about if you read the previous instalments, I bought on Oct. 2nd --wait a minute, I'm a historian, make that on 2 October, 2003-- a black, of course, 1998 Ninja 500R, which I refer to as my training wheels, starter bike or learning machine.

After 279 km in seven days, a mix of neighbourhood putts, commutes on parkways, errands on suburban arterials --for the latter, on quiet afternoons, not the busy Saturday mornings filled with cell phone-wearing minivan drivers --, she told me her name: Brandywine.

Like Very Significant Others who don't like to be referred to as "The wife", a motorcycle should not be called "The Bike." And I could not call that Ninja "Assignment" since the name, very cleverly by the way, was already taken by a fellow journalist and friend of mine named Skiv. ("No, he's not available now, he's on Assignment.")

On the same day I plated Brandywine, Oct. 3, I bought as well a journal, you know the bound sheets of lined paper that executives use to keep track of their notes. I turned mine into a log book, worthy of a pilot. The columns indicate the date, mileage (on the odo), km this ride, weather, destination/route and notes. I also use it to track expenses, from gas and thus consumption, to menial operating expenses such as the chain wax I bought, the litres of oil that are now on my lubricants shelf to the battery charger I got today. (No, not a trickle charger à la Battery Tender, just a 1-amp manual charger. Which will be used this winter, sigh, with a digital voltmeter.)

Why the log book, you ask? Well, it's something nice to do, when I roll Brandywine in my single garage, as I have my post-ride cigarette -- which is almost as good as a smoke after... well, you know what I mean.

At the very least, the log book will give me something to look at during those long winter nights.

As for my riding experience, with each ride my confidence level increases and I find myself getting more enthusiastic with the throttle between shifts -- but within reason of course, since at the ripe age of 34 I pride myself in having more brains than testosterone.

While riding moderately twisty back roads -- the kind where you don't really need to slow down much before taking the curve -- I'm happy to report that I have not scared myself. I find that the mantra "Look, lean, believe" is quite effective. My cornering skills, which as an intellectual I strive and want to master, are improving with each ride.

Which brings me to the core of the matter. I'm having so much fun on my little sport bike, the baby Ninja as the big boys call it, that I find myself reconsidering the whole Harley thing. The Honda (note the lack of asterisks in the middle of that Japanese name, f**k the purists) VFR800 looks sexier and sexier in my eyes, for when I graduate from my training wheels, at the soonest a year from now.

Then again, I could just slap myself, come to my senses and be on the lookout for an FXRS-C(onvertible) --Eric Buell's frame being the best handling HD-- or a nicely tricked-out Sporty 1200 with T-storm or XB-12 heads...

Nevertheless, and this is the most important thing, behind the chin bar of my FF helmet, there's this very wide grin.