One Man & His Bike

The showroom seemed illuminated by the glow from the chrome. The glistening black bodywork held all the exotic promise of a desert sky. She called to me. I wanted her, and her name was Virago....

When I was sixteen, I had wanted a motorcycle. My friends had them. Why couldn't I? My mother said no, they're too dangerous. My father said I couldn't afford it. So I promised myself one day I would have one. One day.

When I was twenty I was in college and running a car. Motor cycles seemed frivolous and pointless, especially in Yorkshire, where the sun doesn't shine very often and the roads are permanently coated in that brown slippery compound, the one that inconveniences car drivers by coating their headlights with a thin crust of grime. The stuff which offers no traction to motorcyclists, and leaves them lying in the road watching their pride and joy cartwheeling off into the gloom.

When I was thirty I was commuting in and out of London. On Fridays I travelled north with a suitcase of dirty washing. On Monday I headed south again with clean clothes. Although life was busy there seemed plenty of time in the future for the things I wanted to do one day.


When I was forty it dawned on me that I was older than my Dad, when he said I couldn't have a motor bike. It would not seem long until I would have to have the same conversation with my own kids. I was having my mid-life crisis. I decided there and then that if was going to have a mid-life crisis I might as well do it in style.

The first step was to get a license. To do this one must pass a test (several now, actually). To pass a test one must have tuition. I got in touch with the Brear driving school, prop. Dave Brear, of Kettering. I booked a place on one of Dave's one-day Compulsory Basic Training courses, on one of Dave's bikes. (I forgot to mention that - you need a motor bike ...). Without doing the CBT you are not allowed out on the road, even on a moped with "L" plates. My group of three trainees learned to get on the bike, get off it again. Start it up and stop it. Accelerating, changing gear and braking came next, followed by turning right, left and the emergency stop. All this in the peace and quiet of a school playground. Now we were ready for the open road.

I admit to some apprehension as we set off. I was still unhappy with my clutch control, I wasn't convinced I would remember it all. Our guide Howard was following the three of us as we wobbled off together. Howard had a walkie talkie. We all had receive-only units and couldn't answer back. On the other hand we all wore crash helmets so I'm fairly sure that no-one could see my ears burning red as I forgot to cancel my indicator for about the five hundredth time. After a while it all started to come together. I was bowling along, banking into corners and braking evenly and straight as if had done it all my life. I did not stall. I did not fall off. The sky was blue, the trees were green and the girls we passed seemed pretty. I was hooked.

Ten weeks later. The test date. I have survived Dave Brear's walkie talkie tyranny. I have discovered that not being able to answer back is a positive advantage, because I CAN answer back and he can't hear me. We have covered the test route in both directions, with all its permutations of turn in this road, turn in that road, hill start here and emergency stop there.


I have had a long quiet talk with myself, and believe that I can do it if I believe I can. I can and I believe. This is pre-test nerves like I haven't had in years.

The test was a dream. The day was clear and dry. The examiner turned out to be human with arms and legs and spoke in English. The bike went where I pointed it, stopped where I wanted it to stop and did not fall over. I passed.

I was now at a cross-roads. Do I retire from motor cycling, having conquered the self-doubt of pre-test nerves? Now I have a license, can I smugly convince myself I can have a bike any time I want one? (and invent excuses why I can't have one now). There's always an excuse for not doing something and having a mid-life crisis is about realising how many times one has been mean or cowardly or spiteful to one's self - and how little time is left. Buy a motor bike? Hell yes!