“The best fiction is far more true than any kind of journalism—and the best journalists have always known this” – Hunter S. Thompson (Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas)
It was late August. I had been planning all summer to get my motorcycle level two license but had largely spent the time procrastinating, plagued by sleepless nights and reckless drinking which was definitely contrary to the process. But it was late August, as I said, and I knew I had to complete at least one thing on my summer ‘to do’ list and—let’s be realistic—I wasn’t going to learn French in a week. So I turned to the page labeled “summer goals” in my notebook, between pages containing some demoralizing financial statements and hack poetry which I probably composed at 5 o’clock in the morning in some altered state of awareness and decided that I needed to ride a wild hog before labour day—or die trying. Over the years I’ve found you learn a lot about yourself at five o’clock in the morning, if you can remember any of it. My main method is just jotting down whatever I figure out, and then trying to make sense of it in the morning. The problem with this is that the words end up looking like hieroglyphics or some illegible cipher. It’s basically like trying to interpret and analyze a dream and after some quick consideration decided that I was unwilling to subject my burning desire to ride a motorcycle to anything close to Freudian analysis—lest I figure out something I didn’t intend to.
So, by 8 a.m. on Monday morning I had to be down at the Docks for my first day at the Rider Training Institute (RTI for short). Seeing as how 8 a.m. had been my bed time for most of the summer, I was forced to get up from some half-trance state which was more like a glazed over reverie than actual sleep. I made some coffee, which seemed pointless since I had just popped some combination of sedatives and tranquilzers, having alternated some days between Ativam and Robax, just stopping short of popping valium in concocting my pharmaceutical trail-mix combinations. Still it did not cure my insomnia a bit nor did a stiff belt of Vodka which my best friend assured me was an ancient Russian remedy that had been in his family for generations.
It was nearly 8 o’clock when I called a cab, knowing full well I was in no physical condition to make it down there under my own physical power, but having shelled out the 400 dollars or so to take the course in the first place I resigned my fate to higher powers and hopped inside. The day was far more grueling than I could ever have imagined. I could hear Raul Duke’s fictive voice echoing in my head having watched that Fear and Loathing movie for a 58th time: “God please give me a few more high speed hours before you drop the hammer!”
Unlike Duke I was without a Doctor Gonzo to share in my ‘loathing,’ having been so unceremoniously ditched in my quest by my friend with the Vodka morning breath….
The Taxi arrived at 8’oclock on the dot which meant that I was already late. Not good, considering the pass/fail nature of the days that were ahead. I sat in the cab trying to avoid small talk to no avail, a disappointing turn of events because I really needed the time to brush up on my road rules. “What’s going on at the docks?”, my chatty cabby Amir inquired. I recalled that Cirque du Soleil had just debuted their new show nearby, hoping he would take the hint and just let me study. But he noticed the book spread a top my lap, forcing me to reveal my true intentions. Motorcycles. A quick, perverted grin lept to his lips. “A ha! Girls… they love the motorcycles, you know… lots of power between the legs, right? Right?” Great. Really insightful buddy. Of all the cabbies in Toronto they had to send me an amateur Freudian. I dove back into the rule of the road.
By quarter to nine I had made it to the RTI more than a half an hour late, perking up instantly as I saw the bikes from the streaked cab window. I immediately gravitated towards a black Kawasaki Eliminator 125. Not exactly the kind of bike you want with dubious motor skills, but I was assured that a 125cc engine is probably one of the slowest this side of a moped. There were eight of us in the class, all guys, and the testosterone flow was as obvious from the start from Eloi the Cop, brothers Cory and Collin (two Irish construction workers), and Will the graphic designer who looked more like a Hells Angels alumnus than an artist.
We started off discussing how to turn on the bikes, using the freakyass acronym COLD KNIFE. Man, it’s like motorcycle school was designed by a psychotic ex-Navy Seal. I’ve since forgot the exact formula but the letters somehow stood for Choke, Kickstand, Ignition, Fuel, Engine. Maybe it was one of those incomplete acronyms.
The bike was more heavy than I anticipated, and I struggled to keep it up at slower speeds, but with the engine on I didn’t face this problem. I pulled in the clutch to separate the back wheels from the engine, put the bike in neutral then gave it some throttle and I was off.
I was the first one to get into the actual exercises as my classmates spent a considerable amount of time revving their engines by jostling with the throttle, which they assured me was to warm up a cool engine, but sounded more like some strange, metallic mating ritual for motorcycles.
I’m not sure at what point in the day I received it but eventually I had acquired the moniker “First Gear”–a pretty emasculating moniker for a guy. Wanting to shed this label I gave in to peer pressure (like any post adolescent male) and did something stupid. I didn’t know how brash I was being until my lower torso and solar plexus were rudely introduced to the cold, hard, pavement.
I had tried to shift into 3rd gear but had trouble finding it with my left boot and ended up riding “air bike,” which is about as bad as playing air guitar—but with more painful consequences.
I ended my first day of training physically beaten down, but on the plus side I fell into a deep sleep of pure exhaustion by the time I got home. If I had known that a motorcycle could cure my insomnia I would have gotten one along time ago.
