Safety First!

My "experienced rider" class was a full day on base at Keyport, which is about ten miles from my home. At the time I was driving an 80 cc Honda Elite which, on a good day, went 45 on a straight-away. My drive to Keyport included hills and a 55 mph speed limit. Lucky for me, there was no one else on that road and I had a leisurely drive there.

I arrived to find several young guys standing around their sport bikes and a well-seasoned, short and stocky man pacing around purposefully collecting information from everyone. Our instructor, we'll call him Bill, was a surprisingly cheerful fellow who had been teaching this class for longer than I've had my driver's license. I popped my scooter up on its center stand and tried my best to look cool leaning against it. No one even looked in my direction. Bikers continued to trickle in, some of them older guys, some very young. Then, last but not least, came a red Ducati, with its rider in full Red leathers. Everyone watched as he parked, took off his helmet and took us all in. He was the first person to speak to me. "That's not a motorcycle," he said pointing at my scrappy little yellow scooter, "that's a murdercycle." I gave him a slack-jawed look. Was this guy for real? He is driving one of the fastest bikes made and he is giving me shit? "You're going to get yourself killed on that thing."

I'm not sure what kind of look I had on my face, but I hope it accurately expressed my disgust. I didn't give him the satisfaction of a response. The class got started, we rode around in our circles and dodged cones, rode over obstacles in our path, listened to our instructor talk about safety and proper rules of the road. As Bill gave me more thumbs-up and smiles, the other riders warmed up to me. They soon discovered the advantage of having a scooter -- going slow. Everything on a training course is slow, slow, slow. Getting up to 20 mph was going fast. Most of the guys were on sport bikes, which don't know how to go slow. They struggled, wobbling unsteadily around hairpin turns, putting their feet down on the u-turn challenge. By the end of the day and the big test, they were all looking at my scooter with envy.

We lined up for one of the first tests where you have to get going about 20-30 mph, then stop quickly inside of a box. It was the only test that really scared me, mostly because I wasn't sure I could get up to speed before I got to the box. But I did, and all was good. Those of us who had finished lined up behind the instructors and watched others taking their test. When Big Red came screaming down the line and stopped inside the box, his back tire popped about three feet off the pavement. Bill and his co-instructor yelled out, "Whoa!" and started examining Big Red's bike more closely. Turns out his bike had been tampered with and the rear brake disengaged. Big Red swore that he bought the bike as is, and I secretly prayed he would fail the test and suffer the humilitation of walking home in his full red leathers. After Bill passed him, I couldn't resist confronting Big Red, "Talk about a murdercycle! At least I have two brakes on my scooter!" He just glared at me.

With my laminated safety card in hand, I made my way home. It had been a perfect 80-degree day and I was fortunate enough to spend it outside, pretending to be one of the guys and riding my scooter around all day. And the biggest prize -- I could now pay the $25 for my endorsement and begin riding on base. Little did I know, the base cops would have it in for me from day one.