“You’re not a real biker until you've fell off,” said the meanest son of a bitch standing over me. These curious words of wisdom did little to ease the pain in my left buttock, which had taken the full impact from 30mph. My pride and joy, a CB250K3, had come to rest some 20 yards away. The usual damage of tank, silencer and indicators screaming for more of my hard earned cash.
The huge creature had arrived on the scene before I had come to my senses. He seemed to take some perverse pleasure in seeing me trying to pick myself off the tarmac. Perhaps he was of the opinion that he has witnessed the birth of a real biker. He slammed down the gear lever of his machine and screamed off to the nearest pub to tell a tale of another learner being christened.
That was over 15 years ago but the scar still exists. Looking back I cringe at the things I got away with. The near misses. It wasn't until I realised that some people who ride motorcycles don’t fall off that I thought that perhaps I was doing something wrong. Just because you can get from A to B without any mishaps doesn’t mean you can ride a motorcycle properly.
It was time to get some help. At that time the only training scheme in the area was the now defunct RAC/ACU course. I had by this time passed my test, two laps around the test centre clockwise, then anti-clockwise and one emergency stop affair, but was still an awful rider. Just to make things interesting I decided to become an instructor...
The course I attended all three instructors were plod who knew the theory backwards (as embodied in the bible of motorcycle control, Roadcraft) as they rode the theory eight hours a day; they knew every trick in the book, and a few besides. Picture the scene - a summer’s evening in a mid Cheshire market town in the car park of the local high school stands a line of twelve machines. Two BMWs, three Kwackers, four Honda 750s, a Gold Wing, a 750 Guzzi and last, but not least, right at the very end, yours truly’s MZ TS250.
Inside the school the owners discuss the aims of the lesson ahead. This is week three and the stage has been reached where the instructors are going to stooge, that is they are to take on the character of a learner. Bear in mind, that your imagination is being asked to be stretched. A large gentleman in what looks amazingly like police issue clothing, riding a big, expensive machine is asking you to believe he is about to become a 17 year old lad riding a TZR125, which he has had for three months. The lad admits to you that he is on the course because his parents have threatened to take the bike off him if he doesn’t learn to ride it properly - i.e. not to bounce it off bus stops once a week. The lad’s name, you are told, is Kevin.
The character is based on a real person, or as your instructor who is about to become this person puts it, he's the biggest dickhead on two wheels. And with that, the tall handsome person standing straight in front of you suddenly goes limp. His shoulders fall, his hands go deeply into his trouser pockets and his jaw drops together with his eyelids. He is now Kevin.
You are taught to take control of the situation. However because you are still learning you forget things. Make a mistake with Kevin and you end up looking a right pillock. Having gone through the theory with Kevin you inform him that it is time to set off on the road. Mistake number one is not making sure you tell your pupil to wait until you are ready. I forgot and so Kevin mounted his TZR125, heavily modified to look like a BMW 100RT, blasted off at warp factor speed to the end of the road and then disappeared.
My modest mount worked hard that night. I eventually caught Kevin, overtook him and waved him down. We were now in the town centre, early Friday evening. I had had enough of this bastard Kevin and his antics. Rule number two, if your pupil does something stupid or dangerous give him both barrels. I marched back towards Kevin, who sat with the most stupid of grins across his face, with a finger stuck well and truly up his nose.
“You fucking dickhead! Are you some sort of arsehole or what? What was that all about? From now on you will do as you are fucking told or I'm going to kick your back passage from one end of this road to the other. Got it straight?” Kevin looked as though he was going to cry. His jaw started to wobble and he muttered something about his dad. He was however going to behave himself from then on. That would do for me and I turned to return to the MZ.
Standing in line across the pavement next to my bike were two middle-aged couples, a foursome in their best togs going out on the town. All four had their mouths open in awe at what they had witnessed. What is the world coming to when an officer of the law sits there and takes that abuse, starting to cry and whinge for his dad? They hurried away as soon as I approached them. If only I had a camera!
This kind of thing went on for seven weeks. The final lesson was The Test. To give the course credibility we were tested by none other than the police motorcycle examiners. They had not seen us before and so we had to show them we had indeed become worthy of the coveted Instructors Certificate. The test was basically as per the course. They rode behind you to check your standard of riding and then they would stooge in front of you. You either pass or fail, there are no grey areas with these guys. I failed! Nerves had got the better of me on the night. I had to return the following week and go through it all over again. This time I passed. What did I fail on? I changed gear at the wrong time, too early and too fast, causing the machine to lurch when the clutch was engaged, a typical learner trick.
The cost of the instructor’s course at that time was £85, however the cost was met by the Cheshire Motorcycle Training Association. In return it was agreed that I would do my first course as an instructor free of charge, the expenses I would have earned going towards the cost of the course. With the introduction of CBT the expenses are a lot less because less hours are needed. The expenses might just cover the cost of running some hyperbike but arming yourself with the humble MZ may well find enough left to treat yourself to a new pair of boots.
In the days before CBT, novice riders could be met by an instructor at the shop where he or she had bought their machine. They would be given, what we in the trade called a First Time Buyers Course. A two hour introduction to the machine and the road. Included in the price was an escort home, which as you can imagine was a good selling point to worried parents.
On one particular occasion, one of our instructors had arranged to meet a young lad who was taking delivery of a new 125 TZR. Our man arrived at the shop at the pre-arranged time of 2.30 on a Saturday afternoon. Unfortunately, the pupil didn't turn up until after 3.30. It was obvious from the start that the pupil did not have the experience of riding he claimed. A quick spin around a field on a C90 step thru was nearer the truth.
And, so it was right back to the basics. By the end of the two hours the lad was still unable to move off without dumping the clutch and stalling the machine. The shop was closed and it was not a good idea to abandon the machine during the night. Another hour’s instruction passed and yet another hour came and went. Things were little better and it was nearly eight o'clock.
Both the pupil’s mother and the instructor’s wife had rung up to ask after their missing men. The booking officer was worried, the instructor’s wife was very worried and the pupil’s wife was so worried she was ringing the police to see if any motorcycle accidents had been reported. Unfortunately, there had been and the near hysterical lady was phoning all the local hospitals.
By the time the pupil returned home after nine o'clock his mother was absolutely crazy with worry, the instructor’s wife half crazed from the stiff drinks she'd been taking and the booking officer fearing the worst. That's just one example of an instructor’s weird and wonderful life. Machine condition is another.
An overheating GP100 with a top speed of 20mph down to a rear brake that was adjusted so tight that even the full force of the large instructor couldn’t turn the wheel. The H100 which made a pinging noise as the chain was as tight and dry as piano wire. The CB125 with a seat held on with insulation tape, a rack tied on with string, a rear brake seized on and a headlamp that was falling apart.
A year old TZR with a high pitched front brake that forced everyone within a hundred yards to stick their fingers in their ears - the pads had been chucked and the caliper pistons used instead! The CB125T with a crack running across the top of the engine, the motor held in place by one bolt and the spark plug leads! And, on and on...
G.A.