Ten Thousand Miles

The day I bought the bike (bottom), and 10,000 miles later (Top).

Yesterday, I passed a milestone, 10,000 miles on my motorcycle. Just under two years ago, I decided to learn to ride, and almost as soon as I started, I nearly quit.

I got thrown off the bike in day one of classes and scared the hell out of myself, and my instructors. That night I made the decision to finish the class, get my license and become a competent rider. Only then would I allow myself to quit riding IF I decided it wasn't for me. I would not let fear be the deciding factor.

Twenty one months ago I bought my bike and began riding daily. First in parking lots, then the mile and half to work, then longer. The first time on a highway above 35 mph, the wind, the speeding cars, the huge trucks, was terrifying. Now its routine.

I ride alone, I didn't have buddies or a club to ride with, so it was a few months before I felt confident enough to venture OTP. By the end of the summer I took my day trip, 200 miles. There's a special kind of courage to wonder out into the unknown alone. You have to have confidence in yourself that you can handle whatever comes your way.

I still ride every day. Every step out my door is preceded by the question: Can I ride the bike? Rain, sub freezing temps and the need to carry anything that won't fit in my backpack are usually the only things that answer that question with a "no."

Now I've done ten thousand miles! (On a bike that only saw 2,000 per year before I got it.) Riding through the steep hills and curves of the North Georgia mountains yesterday, still gave me moments of anxiety and challenge. Finding the right gear, leaning a little more, remembering to brake before the curve, NOT in it, managing front and rear brakes -- Riding take thought and purpose and skill.

But unlike two years ago, I didn't have the terror in the pit of my stomach. I knew that if I went down, I would survive. Ego, and probably body, bruised, but I could handle it, because I'd handled everything the road had thrown at me for 10,000 miles.

I give myself permission to quit riding now.

But I choose to continue anyway. Its who I am now, its a way of life for me now.

I'm also reminded now, that I'm entering my third year of riding -- The most dangerous years. Riders in their third year are the most likely to have an accident, more than cautious newbies, and far, far more than seasoned vets who continue on beyond year three.

I told myself, when I began, that I would remain cautious through this year, that I would not let hubris bring me to tragedy.

I see other riders in shorts and t-shirts, in minimal helmets, no gloves, etc. I feel the heat in the summer and think it would be great to go without a jacket, that my boots are thick and hot -- That I don't look "cool." But I also know the cost of a small mistake without protection can be huge, and that even if I do it all right, someone else might hit me, or a mechanical failure could bring me down hard.

I ride to feel alive, I do not want to die doing it... Or get maimed or crippled. I realize I always run that risk, but there's no need to multiply.

So I enter my third year of riding with a renewed sense of purpose to my riding. To get better. Be more aware, become more skillful, to push my limits more.

And I ride on.

The Daily Scare - Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Fear

"Do something every day that scares you."

 -- Mary Schmich

 (not Eleanor Roosevelt) 

This is a lesson I've tried to apply in my life for years, but its so general, that it can be difficult to understand exactly how to employ it. For me, it took learning to ride a motorcycle to finally crystallize in my mind the best way to really do this.

When I first heard this years ago, I thought it meant doing something NEW that scared me everyday. The problem with that, is that I tended to look for big, new things I hadn't done before and that becomes difficult to keep up. Often time, big things, like skydiving for example, take a lot of time and effort to set up and follow through on. Its impossible to do something like that every day. 

This spring, I decided it was time I learned to ride a motorcycle, which is a big thing, not an every day level activity. It was something I'd long wanted to do, and had made various excuses to put it off for years. That time was over, the time to do it had come. So I signed up for an MSF class. I bought a riding jacket, complete with armor pads to protect myself, and ridding gloves. I had ankle height hiking boots, to protect my feet, so I was good to go. The class provided the helmets and motorcycles. 

The day of the class I was a little nervous, but mostly excited, and I expected to do well. I'd studied all my materials, read the course book cover to cover. I'm in good shape, generally athletic, and I got a good night's sleep. I was ready. 

The class consisted of classroom and practical riding on a closed parking lot. The classroom work was easy for me, I'd read the whole book, I knew the materials. The riding seemed easy at first, too. We started with starting the bike.

That sounds simple, but its a little more complicated than starting a car. Everything on a motorcycle comes with a higher price of failure. You're not protected by a metal cocoon with airbags and safety belts. You DO have several hundred pounds of metal and plastic between your legs capable of moving very quickly. Pop the clutch in a car and the car jumps and lurches and stalls and its embarrassing. Pop the clutch on a motorcycle and it could go rocketing off, possibly with you on it, out of control until it falls over, possible with you still on it. You could not only break the bike, bending the handle bars, scratching the paint, etc., you could hurt yourself or someone else very seriously. So you take extra steps with everything.

By the time we broke for lunch we were cruising around the lot in first gear, everything was fine. 

After lunch, things were getting more and more complicated, each skill building on the last. As we started up the bikes and moved out to line up for the next skill, I accidentally throttled the bike hard. I began to panic, but followed my instructor's first lesson, "The clutch is your friend." So I pulled the clutch. With the throttle open, the engine revved up high, screaming loudly and terrified me. The bike was still rolling, and I was panicked. I didn't think the clutch was working, so I let it out to try it again. 

Letting the clutch out with the engine racing on a 300cc sport bike is the perfect recipe for a wheelie, which is exactly what the bike did. The front wheel popped up, straight up into the air, throwing me off like a bucking bronco, and sending the bike careening forward into a fence. Fortunately, no one else was hurt. 

The incident scared the living shit out of me. My instructors nearly bounced me from the class, rightfully so. I was boarder-line, I was becoming a danger to myself and others. Nervously, I finished the day, having lost confidence in myself, I was re-thinking the entire motorcycle idea. Maybe this wasn't for me? Maybe I should stick to cars?

I showed up the next day and finished the class. Still anxious about the power of the bike, I was cautious about everything I did. I passed the written exam with a perfect score and got the lowest possible score on the practical riding exam to pass. Literally, one point lower and I would have failed. 

Humbled, I headed home. I stopped on the way home and bought a helmet. Leaving the class I wasn't sure I was going to continue riding, but spending a couple hundred dollars on a good helmet would force me to keep going. I made the decision that when I learned to ride safely and confidently, then I could quit. Buying the helmet was a commitment to that. I would prove I COULD do it, then not doing it would be a choice rather than a default.

A week or so later, new license in hand, I went to buy my first motorcycle, a used cruiser. Less powerful than the sport bike I'd learned on, but bigger. When I took it for a test ride around the owner's neighborhood, I did a similar thing to the accident in class. I lost control and ditched it in someone's front yard. No one saw me, the bike was fine, so I rode it back and bought it. 

I had a buddy drive it home a few days later. I was not ready for the 45 minutes on the highway. I'd never been out of 2nd gear before. 

Now I had a motorcycle. I'd been reading books about riding skills and safety for two weeks. I'd been listening to pod casts on the same subjects, and watching videos online.Now I had to put it into practice.

My first day out, I carefully rode it to a near by parking lot and began drilling the basic skills. Breaking, low speed cornering, clutching... Over and over and over. 

The next day, I woke up, had breakfast and headed out to do the same thing. The only road time the bike saw that first week was the mile and a half to the parking lot and back, at no more than 25 miles an hour. Then I began riding it to work and back, 2 miles each way. Then touring around town, even getting up into third gear. Every day I pushed a little harder. Every couple days I was back in a parking lot drilling skills. 

40 mph was the the next big scare. There seemed to be a big change in the amount of wind between 35 and 40. It was pushing me harder, buffeting me and bike, trying to turn me and push me off the bike. It was loud and scary. But I got used to it. 

Then I took it out on a little stretch of highway, up to 65 miles an hour! What was slow driving speed for me in my car, was terrifying on a motorcycle. I made it to my exit 3 miles down, turned off, and limped home on surface roads, too scared to go back the way I came. 

But the next day I did it again. Then again. Then again. Reaching out further and further every time, 5 miles then 10. Then came the day I was comfortable at 65, so I took it out for day trip. 220 miles round trip on highways and state roads.  By the end of the day I was exhausted from tension, but I'd also had those moments of bliss just cruising with my machine, the moments every biker rides for.

Over the course of the summer I made a point to ride every single day. My bike is 2004 model, and had 24,600 miles on it when I bought. The previous owners had put about 2000 miles a year on it. By the time I left for my end of August vacation, I had ridden all but two day since buying it and logged over 3,500 miles. More miles in a three months than that bike usually saw a year, and more than many riders ride in a year. 

I made a point to push myself every day. Not to the point of utter terror. I learned to sense my own tension, and to just touch on it a bit every ride. Maybe go a little faster, or further, maybe find a curvy road and practice riding curves. I learned to recognize when a specific skill made me nervous and increased my tension level, like entering a tight turn, the I'd head to a parking lot drill that skill over and over.

I learned to see situations that made me uncomfortable, like fast traffic, and spend a part of each ride in that situation until I got more comfortable. I learned to look for trouble, and spot potential problems and look for escape routes just in case, and practice specific skills that would help in those situations, like swerving and emergency stopping. 

Then the day came when I was riding to a friend's house. I headed up the on-ramp to the highway, twisted the throttle open, shifted up through the gears, merged into traffic, slide over a lane, then another, then another, until I was in the HOV lane, sliding past cars. Only then did I look down and see I was up to 80 mph, buffeted by wind, cruising in heavy traffic, around bends in the highway, and feeling fine. I was alert, aware, but not worried, not tense.

I had done something every day that scared me. It was the same thing, riding a motorcycle, but it was also always a different thing, a new challenge, a little faster, a little further, ride the highway, ride the curves, brake harder, turn tighter. I learned to sense my fear, and to use it as a guide. I learned to read it, to know when it was telling me "this is what you need to practice," and when it was saying, "back off, take a break."

Looking back, I've applied this approach to a lot of things in my life, but I didn't realize it. Now that I do, I can continue to apply it, in a conscious way, from now on -- Doing something every day that scares me. But I learned something else when I learned to acknowledge my fears and to be guided by them.

I learned that the feeling I got that guided me to work on my turning skills, is the same feeling I get in other situations in life, like when I need to apologize to someone when I'm mad. Well, not exactly the same, but similar. That's a fear, too, fear of being vulnerable, of admitting wrong, of setting myself up to be yelled at and shamed. Doing those things also falls under the category of "things that scare me."

Doing something that scares me everyday turns out to be easier than I thought, because every day I find things that scare me, maybe even the same thing that scared me yesterday. It doesn't have to be a big thing, or something I planned. I just need to acknowledge that I am feeling fear, anxiety, uncertainty, and then understand that feeling and figure out if its telling me to move forward and grow, or to slow down and not push too hard. 

Everyone can see the use of using fear to learn a new skill. Now I can ride a motorcycle with confidence, and I have the sense to know when I should take it easy, and when I need to practice, but the end result is easy for everyone to see. Its measurable, demonstrable. 

The other kinds of things, the little daily fears that I use to guide me now, are not so easy for others to see, but the changes following them has made in me are no less an improvement in my life and in my character. I'm more open, more forgiving, more loving, I'm friendlier. 

So I have learned to embrace my fears, to feel them, to question them, and to follow them. Every day I do something that scares me, and that is changing who I am for the better.