One thing I learnt during my short experience of motorcycling is definitely, without a doubt, L-plates and a bike don’t complement each other. One short call got me booked into the CBT. Documents, lid, jacket and a borrowed bike (and an apprehension beyond words), saw me down the school where I was, or was not, going to pass my CBT. With the lecture over it was now time to straddle the bike and show just what I could not do.
So far the furthest I'd ridden was 50 yards down the drive. Knowing that two out of ten times I could pull away without stalling and stop without almost dropping it, did little to boost my confidence. An hour of perseverance from me and loads of patience from the instructor saw me doing large circles in the car park.
Things were at the very, very early stage of falling into place, when I stumbled upon the first problem with the bike. The battery died, bringing a short, abrupt end to my CBT. A bump start fired the bike into life and was ridden home by the guy who owns it. Some water and a charger had the bike ready for me to try again the following day.
After some tuition in the car park the instructor said I was ready to go on the road. Ha, ha, funny person. Obviously he saw a tiny little bit of potential in me, that I did not believe was there. Having an instructor in front and one behind did nothing whatsoever to make me feel better. Five minutes out and I was ready to go back and give up.
Needless to say, I did. not pass my CBT. Two weeks of riding round and round a car park, dropping the bike a fair few times. Having to replace brake and clutch levers, and indicators, I made some very minor improvements. I was back trying again for that all important CBT, the first step on my way to taking the bike test. My confidence was at an all time low, but still I hadn't given up. Third time lucky, I passed. I was finally let loose to ride on the road.
Travelling to work at 6.30am meant almost empty roads. No-one to get in my way or witness when I made a mistake. Coming home however was a totally different story. 4.30pm, rush hour traffic and an arsehole round every corner just laying in wait for me.
I really wanted to pass my bike test but | had one major problem. I hated being on the bike. I was not a natural born motorcyclist and it was plainly obvious to me and anyone who saw me ride the bike. During the first day of being on the road the back tyre needed replacing. A day left in the shop, the inner tube needed replacing as well. That inner tube was the first of many unexpected things that turned out to be unwanted expenses.
After two weeks I started my lessons. An eight week course which, it's said, takes you above test standard. Ha, who are they trying to kid? Week one - check the bike over. Not much wrong with the one I was on (well, nothing that could be seen from the outside). Once again I was riding round the car park, only this time someone had seen fit to place cones in my way. Knowing I was supposed to go round them did not stop me from hitting them and dragging them along, stuck in the chassis. With the completion of week one I was now not just riding the bike, I was practising what I'd been taught. The main thing being, stop without the front wheel going over the line. Not too bad, I could handle that.
Week two came around. The system. Something thought up by a deity on a bike, designed to infuriate the mere mortals like me. Let’s forget that this system is designed for safety reasons, let’s just be concerned with the fact that it’s bloody hard, and, for me, practically impossible.
Junction coming up, I’m turning right. Rear observation, signal, lifesaver move. What now? I know there’s an arm signal to be done somewhere. Going to and from work I tried to get the system in. That was until the bike was off the road for a few days. I was up, dressed and ready to leave. The bike, however, was not playing by my rules.
My rules being that the bike works when I want it to, no matter how much I abuse it. The bike didn't agree, it played up in heavy traffic, and the repairs cost me more than I can comfortably afford. A dozen pushes on the starter button and I was finally convinced that my rules had been ignored.
More water, the charger in use again and the battery was ready to work. Next morning it'd changed its mind! Another lift into work and another day with the charger on. The following morning, same again. A phone call to the guy who owned the bike; “Bike’s not working, fix it.” I'd used up all my patience on the bike, I had none left for him. A brand new battery, one push on the starter button and the bike was working.
Now to practise the system again. Rear observation, signal, move no, that’s not right. I know how the system goes, why can't I do it while approaching a junction? Week 3, still no closer to getting the system right. A lecture on traffic lights and U-turns. No way was I getting on the bike to risk my pride and self-esteem by attempting that U-turn. A total refusal from me to get on the bike found me talking to one of the instructors.
Over to Wimbourn school the next evening, followed by the instructor. Back in the school car park, a short discussion and it was discovered that my stopping technique was all wrong. Round and round the car park again. If there was one thing I hated more than the bike it had to be the car parks. A while later I finally came to a stop smoothly without toppling one way or the other. Success came sweetly to me. I was ready to go out and really give it all I had.
Ready that was until some supreme being decided I was to be the butt of his jokes for a while, rained disaster and disaster down on me. It was during rush hour traffic when the first joke struck. Having the money for a new lid, and being on my way to buy it, was enough to put me on a great high.
Travelling along at 30mph, traffic and irate cagers everywhere, when the bike started to lose speed. Down to 25mph... 20mph... still dropping. What the hell was going on? Dropping down a gear did nothing to improve the behaviour of the bike. Down another gear and the speed picked up, but not without first infuriating car drivers who tried but failed to cut me up. War! A half hour ride home and a long stream of curses was enough to make that high disappear for good.
Thanks! to the bike going wrong this time I learnt that it has rings and they would need replacing. That being one piece of information I could easily have lived without knowing. After two weeks of patiently waiting for the work to be done, I was back on the road, trying once again to get the system right.
A week went by before yet again the bike played up. Rush hour traffic, waiting to go on to a roundabout when it stalled. Push after push on the starter did absolutely nothing to bring some life back to the engine. Once again the bike was making a complete arsehole of me! I figured the GS knew damn well what it was doing and was laughing at me! I pushed it into a side street, tempted to leave it there to rot. A phone call to the owner and he came to my aid. A few bump starts later it finally went. That bike must’ve hated me almost as much as I hated it.
A partial engine strip showed the alternator to be fine. So what was wrong with the bloody thing now? A used regulator/rectifier unit made the bike roadworthy. For a week I'd ridden around with a car battery in the top box which was rigged up to the ignition.
Then came a couple of weeks of relatively stress free riding, That godforsaken system was sort of coming together. I’d only mess up part of it instead of all of it.
Then came the dreaded MOT. A sixth sense and past experiences told me that there was very little chance of the bike passing first time.
It failed on a few minor points. The front brake-light switch wasn’t working. Connecting the wire back up soon sorted that out. The left handlebar grip was loose. Masking tape wrapped around the bar under the grip tightened that up. With the rest of the work done it passed second time round.
Finally, the day arrived when I ventured out to restart training. Starting back at week two seemed the sensible thing to do, as that bloody system was still giving me problems. An instructor following behind did not exactly put me at ease. A complete dressing down of all my mistakes did little to bring out any improvements from me. Despite this I was still not ready to quit. The hope that one day I'd reach test standard was still there.
The next week was mostly spent out on the back roads. Practice makes perfect but not in my case. Week 3 came around all too quickly. The red light I stopped at turned to green, a quick lifesaver showed it was safe for me to go. Time to start going up the gearbox, the clutch cable, however, had different ideas. It allowed second to kick in before it decided to go into retirement. To say I was pissed off would've been an understatement.
Yet another week off the road. A cable was finally found and fitted.
There was something not quite right, though. The clutch was lighter but the gear change was lumpy and the clutch would sometimes take a couple of seconds to release.
The absolute and final straw came for me on a rainy morning. Pulling away, moving on to a roundabout the clutch went haywire. I’d not had time to comprehend what was going on, when an unfortunately placed patch of diesel (under my back wheel) caused the bike to skid. Being a rather inept motorcyclist two things happening together was enough to cause me to ride along horizontally for a while instead of vertically. Bringing a painful end to my motorcycling career. Lid, leather, jeans and gloves prevented any serious injuries but they didn’t stop my ego from being deflated and my pride dented.
The bike was parked up and left. Three months on I’m starting to consider giving it another go. Not, however on that borrowed GS125. Hopefully it was the bike that was jinxed and not me. I’m just left with saying thank you to the BMF instructors.
Karen Beaumont