The Clueless Rebel

Years ago when living in the more northern part of Maine, I was given a motorcycle by my father. It was all beat up, didn't run right, and resembled something out of the cult classic film Mad Max. I didn't really have an inkling about owning a motorcycle, but it was free and I was up for anything.

Knowing nothing about motorcycles, having no gear, and no license, my first task was to get a learner's permit. The following week, I sat though the 8hr class, talked about motorcycling, took a test and was handed a learner's permit good for 6 months. That day, I went home, registered the bike, spent 10 minutes trying to start it, and finally fired it up. Pulling out of the driveway the first time was a great feeling. Having never been on a motorcycle before it was a fascinating experience. A feeling of freedom and relaxation overtook me. When the bee hit me in the face, I was brought back to reality! I guess I needed some gear.

Gear, like the bike, was out of my scope of understanding. Back then, I thought all I needed to be safe was a good pair of boots, a leather jacket, gloves and a helmet. Sure, many riders use less, but they are usually the ones you read about killing themselves on the highways. Having acquired a pair of construction boots, a snowmobile helmet, garden gloves and some old jeans I was ready to hit the road.

The first thing I noticed when I was on the road was that other riders waved and that cars were out to kill me. It always amazed me that even though I was riding a beastly mess of a bike, I was still able to instantly have the respect of other bikers. I also realized that no matter how fast I was going, it was still not fast enough for the cars. They always passed me.

Some of the funniest experiences I had while being on the bike were the reactions I got from various people. High school girls, for example, were always awestruck. If it was envy, desire, or disgust, I was never able to tell. Had it been desire, it was misplaced as I was usually covered in a combination of bug splat, oil, and sweat, with the occasional bird dropping mixed in. The elderly and the soccer moms usually looked at me is sheer disdain while everyone else just avoided me. It seemed as though the only people who would talk to me were the rough rugged bikers, or the average people who would tell me that I was leaking fuel. I remember one time while waiting to get my battery charged because of a failed alternator/regulator/do-hic-ulator I was approached by at least 15 different people telling me that I had fluid dripping out of my bike. "Yes, I know, it's the oil/fuel/battery acid, bug juice, blinker fluid, etc I got to fix that," I told them. It seemed as though I spent more time sitting on the side of the road than riding that first attempt at motor biking.

It goes without being said that the bike did not last much longer after that. Eventually, the shifter fell off, the charger failed even worse, the clutch let go putting me into the woods and the bike just stopped starting. I let my permit expire, and the bike was parked, still to this day in my garage. I did learn a few valuable lessons. They were to get a reliable bike, some good gear, and learn to ride properly with a Motorcycle Safety Foundation approved basic motorcycling and licensing course. Fortunatly today, I do have a good bike, good gear and proper training. I still miss riding that MadMax rebel bike at times, the reactions alone were worth that endless trouble.

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