A Testing Time

Strange things began to happen when the last load of learner restrictions were heaped upon the apathetic shoulders of the biker movement. The sudden imposition of two tests and a ban if they hadn’t been passed in two years, meant that for a short time driving schools began to train motorcyclists until they realised that it wasn’t quite the same ballgame as teaching car drivers and several thousand bikers did excellent ostrich impressions and were suddenly caught out around 21 months later when they suddenly realised that they only had three months of freedom left. The RAC, some local authorities, the BMF and ROSPA did make efforts to fill the void but because everyone seemed to wait to the last possible moment, they just couldn’t keep up. It was becoming such a farcical situation that the local paper interviewed a large, local driving school who had admitted defeat - they just did not have the staff to teach bikers; furthermore, they did not even have a biker on the staff! A plea went out to all bikers who wanted to become weekend instructors (with good rates of pay and all the necessary teaching supplied); thus did the idea start.

It impressed my old man no end, who could see a new and exciting career for me. To keep the peace, and because I needed the money, I phoned. The line was always engaged, which was my excuse for leaving it for a week until my finances became so desperate that I tried again. I must admit that I was very surprised to find it was a woman. Yes, that may be very sexist, but have you seen how some of them drive let alone ride (that should ruffle a few feathers). I was invited along to an informal chat and was told not to forget my licence.

Two days later I was in a poky little office drinking the most foul coffee and listening intently to my new boss — she just couldn’t stop talking. For three hours she constantly asked questions without waiting for answers. All I managed to find out was that I’d be paid monthly at the rate of £2.50 an hour (not that bad then) and it would be weekend work covering three schools. I escaped, really none the wiser and desperate for a pint.

The next Saturday was a training session at her humble abode. When I arrived I found three BMWs, a motley collection of Japs, a Guzzi and a moped. I almost turned around and went home but she answered the door before I could make good my escape. Inside I met the other prospective instructors - I could spot the BMW riders straight away. We were informed that we had passed the first test, although we had no idea what it was - perhaps it was a boredom test? No, this was In come. For a whole three hours we all sat watching three videos on good CAR driving. The first to crack was one of the Jap riders - he just got up and left, no-one said anything, it was as if he didn’t exist.

Eventually, a very bold BMW rider spoke out, "What is the significance of all this car driving?" The rest of us sat agog. "It can be applied to bike riding," was her reply. "I’m off," was the BMW owner’s reply, and off he went. Perhaps this was test two, who can stick the videos. A short while later another bloke came in, asking who owned the Triumph. I smiled and proudly admitted that it was mine. "Well, it’s bloody well leaking oil on my drive." I endeared myself by saying, "It’s a Triumph," turning back to watch the video. It was at this point that I found out that he was the husband of she (with the mouth). It was late afternoon by then and all of us were getting very restless, there seemed no end to the drivel she was coming out with. We had also found out that the moped was hers, as she felt it necessary that she should be able to ride a bike - which meant one of us had to teach her! Finally, a brave few suggested that we’d been there long enough and that their loved ones would be cashing in the insurance policies. We were asked to return the following morning for some actual training.

The following morning saw rain, a hangover and a doggy determination not to give up. I found the training ground where we had to endure three hours of watching her teaching (and I use the word loosely) eight youngsters. After they all packed up and went home it was our turn. We were each shown the course, walked around it and told to do it. It wasn’t easy on a big Triumph vibrating madly, and with my head falling off, but I did it.

One BMW rider refused on the grounds that his bike was too large and that he should use her moped. He was, of course, right. She was not at all amused, but we were. So the course fell by yet one more. A few of the lap riders had difficulties, making many mistakes but were allowed to stay on. The Guzzi owner just didn’t turn up.

We were all treated to a burger and coffee. This was our graduation, we had made it. We followed her home to pick up the forms and books and everything needed to be an ace-one instructor. I must say I was pleased but not impressed by the standard of training - if you could ride around the course and stand the boredom, then you’re in.

At her home the remaining BMW rider suggested escaping for a pint — this man was talking my language. The saddest moment came when she said one of the Jap riders was turned down because he’d only just passed his test and another because he was under 21 - I felt very sorry for them to have put up with all that shit only to be chucked out at the end, what a bummer. Our last warning was that no physical contact was allowed (you know, no bonking the students).

My first course consisted of one very old dear who had always used her C90 for nip— ping down to the shops, two would-be Barry Sheenes and a very quiet mid-twenties bloke. For the first day I had her looking over my shoulder and every time I spoke she would butt in. I was not a very happy man. When I suggested that we go outside to have a go at riding she went white - "You don’t take them out on the first day!" I must have been very thick in those days, but I could have sworn they came for training. So that was my first days training. I was told off for trying to teach and I totally bored the pants off four people. One good thing did come of it, though. I was stopped for speeding on the way home, I showed the officer my instructor’s card, gave him some sob story and got away with It.

The next weekend saw only the terrible two and the old dear. This time we were allowed out. The two young boys, naturally, caught on quickly. Once shown what to do, and given a little time to practice, they were OK. The old dear, on the other hand, was another matter. I’m sure that if she was blindfolded she would still find her way to the shops, as that was the only time she rode a bike. Her husband even had to put her bike in the back of his car to get her to the school for instruction. So there it was, two boys who only needed to be pointed in the right direction and an old biddy who needed constant attention.
 
Now which would you spend the most time with? No, you’re wrong, she was watching and told me to spend equal amounts of time with everyone just in case of complaint. This I did, and boy was I bored - the youngsters didn’t think much of it either. After 6 weeks I was allowed to enter them for a test, the old biddy was carried through onto the next course, and the next, and the next...

The policy was that no matter how good a pupil they still couldn’t take a test for six weeks. This meant several people were constantly brought back when they could have made room for new people. So it wasn’t long before the limit of four per instructor went up to six then eight and even ten. All the useless cases were put into one class. It was known amongst the instructors as the punishment class. Perhaps because of my outspokenness or because I was late a few times I was given this class. This was the only time I really felt that I was doing something; because of the difficult nature of the task the instructor was given a free hand. In three weeks I managed to get five to pass, ‘ be it by the skin of their teeth. One poor old sod actually ran the examiner over and she wasn’t even on test. It was my fault because I told her to start her moped whilst it was on the stand and forgot to tell her to hold the brake on when she knocked the stand away — off she charged and only stopped when she hit the examiner.

Another old dear had to take her helmet off every time the examiner wished to speak to her as the helmet stopped her hearing aid working. I managed to find a technique for teaching the old fogies. It involved physical contact (no, I didn’t bonk them), I whacked them when they did something wrong. Not hard, you understand, but just enough to remind them not to get it wrong next time. As it was such an unpopular class to teach I got away with this technique for several months before she found out. I was summoned to her house for my wrist slapping. After my reprimand I was taken off the punishment class and watched like a hawk.

A problem we had was finding an examiner every Sunday. This was solved by her husband becoming an examiner, a situation that didn’t appear to cause any concern to the authorities. One of the instructors left and I wasn‘t enjoying the job anymore. All pupils had to do six hours instruction on the road. This was the most unpopular part of the course. After a while you’d send one on a route only to find that they couldn’t tell left from right or they saw a pub was open and stopped off for a quick one, or just that they got bored and went home. Trying to keep track of up to ten people was most exhausting. One instructor lost one pupil and didn’t notice until next week when he turned up and told his story.

Disaffection amongst the instructors was rife. To placate us there was a special evening arranged. It was to be the social night of the year, my lifetime even. It turned out to be a most boring night. All the celebrities who’d been invited turned down the offer. The only people to stay were the local mayor, the chief examiner for the area, some top brass from the local army camp (we taught the pongos as well, but that’s another story) and a TV presenter who was left behind when his film crew did a runner. A running buffet was provided, one for them and one for us. As the actual instructors you’d have thought we’d be allowed some of the good stuff but it wasn’t to be. All the past and present pupils were given a medal for their efforts and she once more proved that speeches should be short. It was then that my mind was made up, the world of teaching with one hand tied behind my back (and ear plugs) was not for me. It was time for pastures anew - I left.

Anon.