Raven’s Rides
Raven's Rides Motorcycle Blog

Twelve years ago today I selected a helmet from a pile, donned my student biker jacket and hiking boots, and took the Compulsory Bike Training class. For the next several hours we did maneuvers in a large parking lot, and culminated the day with a short ride on some very quiet streets. I loved it from the moment I started, to the extent where, whizzing around the asphalt at 30mph, the instructors dubbed me Evel Knievel. ;)

This was not the first time I’d been a biker. When I was 18, my first serious boyfriend taught me how to ride in a parking lot back in the days when supermarkets closed on Sundays. I took to it like a duck to water, but when I went to university I dumped him and didn’t have the resources to buy my own bike. It took a long while for it to be the right time again, but those years probably saved my life–at eighteen I was immortal, reckless, and nothing could possibly happen to me.

Have I ever mentioned that my second nickname was “Terminator”? ;)

In 1996, having a car licence meant that you automatically had a learner’s permit for riding a motorcycle. You were restricted to 125cc, could not take passengers, and could not go on the freeway. The test was a formal affair, about half an hour of riding with correct “observations” (mirror, looking over your shoulder), an emergency stop, hill start, and a u-turn. Katie, my Virago 535, was seven months in the future, and I hadn’t even bought my own 125 yet. But the formality of the test pretty much required formal training, which was performed on borrowed bikes. My tutor, an Irishman who made up for his short stature with a huge personality and the ability to ride enormous bikes superbly, would kit us up with a radio earpiece and issue instructions as we rode.

My car licence was already ancient history by then. I had barely driven since I was eighteen, and now I was 25 going on 26. I found driving intimidating and gave up shortly after passing my test, so as I learned about riding I was learning the rules of the road as well. It took three attempts to pass my test, and when I did I brought bubbly and orange juice into work and we all celebrated with a Buck’s Fizz.

We were bikelings, a little flock of riders taking our class together with mother duck, aka Tony, in tow. And then, one day, we grew up and became bikers.

Life has never been the same since.

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