Description:
I remember being four years old, my hair blowing backward in a web of convoluted strands, as my Dad plopped me down on the gas tank of his Yamaha V-Max. He took me for a ride down the street in front of our house while the sun was setting, the headlight the only source of light in the sparse desert landscape. Even though I burned my leg on the exhaust pipe trying to slide off the tank, I still asked my parents, “When can I do that again?” After that, my mother would tie me to my dad with a scarf because I was too small to hang on. My Dad eventually installed a sissy bar as I got older, and he did wheelies with me on the back all the time, which drove my mother crazy.
Both of my parents have ridden since the 70’s and 80’s. There has always been something with two wheels in the garage at one time or another. Even now, my mother has three bikes and my dad has four, each of them as hungry for the next adventure as they were when they first started riding.
When I was nine years old, my Dad surprised me with my first motorcycle, a pastel pink Suzuki 80cc dirt bike with a muscle man sticker on the gas tank, for my birthday. But after a nasty crash into the bottom board of the round pen (my mom trained horses), I ran sniveling into the house like a baby. I was such a wimp. My Dad shouted after me, “So you’re giving up?” I remember sitting on my day bed having a minor temper tantrum, my hair tangled and my face plump and red from crying, pissed off at myself because my Dad was right. I wiped away my tears and ran back outside, lifting up the dirt bike and pulling it out from underneath the round pen. It took me a minute to restart it, but I got back on. By the time I was eleven, though, I’d barely ridden it because I was scared of it. It was apparent that I wasn’t going to take further interest in it, so my parents sold it.
Fast forward to when I turned sweet sixteen and was driving with my Dad to the DMV to get my driver’s license. “So are you excited about getting your license?” he asks. I turned to him and said, “I’d rather be getting a bike.” He shakes his head no, of course. “We’ve already been down that road. Maybe someday when you’re older and can afford your own.”
When I was seventeen, I took the MSF class at the behest of my mother, who was an MSF instructor at the Honda Center in Colton, CA. She watched helplessly from the fence line as I stalled the bike over and over again, any memory of moto know-how long gone since my dirtbiking days. I just couldn’t figure it out. She bowed her head in disappointment after I dropped the bike twice. After the second time dumping the bike, I asked the instructor, “So is that it? Are you kicking me out?” I knew what was coming since my mom was an instructor, but instead, he surprised me. “No, you’re fine,” he said and he handed the bike back to me, probably because mom was there. Either way, I ended up passing the class. But my mother was worried. She said to me as we got in the car to leave, “I have to admit, I didn’t think you were going to make it.”
Two years later, I finally had the funds to buy my first bike. I was 19 and took the MSF class again to refresh my memory and I finally got the hang of the clutch. No stalling, thank God. I guess I do have a learning curve. I bought a Buell Blast 500 because it had rave reviews in the magazines as being the best beginner bike. I could easily touch the ground flat footed on both sides. My mother insisted I put 3000 miles on it before getting the sport bike that I really wanted. Of course, my crashing habit hadn’t left me, as I dropped the bike the first day I rode to the end of my Dad’s street. I picked the bike up by myself and rode it back to my Dad’s, the tank already scratched and I hadn’t even had it for one whole day.
I took baby steps for the first three months. Since I was so accident prone, I rode around my Dad’s house in the desert where there was hardly any traffic before attempting the dreaded ride to north Orange County, CA, where the freeways were clogged with cagers. Three months later, I finally had the cajones to attempt the 100 mile trek into the heart of urban Southern California and I had a friend follow me in his car.
I’ll never forget how scared I was. The traffic started to back up at the 57 and 60 freeways, just north of Diamond Bar and I still had to make it the rest of the way to my apartment in Fullerton, CA. I thought I was going to die. Every time a driver jerked their car into my lane, I screamed inside my helmet, realizing what an idiot I was for even thinking I could handle riding a motorcycle. But I did my best to stay calm. I made it home in one piece and after about six months on the Buell, and one small crash later, I grew out of it. I was flying down the 91 freeway in a mini tuck, feeling all the bolts shake loose at 90 mph. I put a Vance and Hines pipe on the Buell so it sounded like a fat boy with straight pipes. It made so much noise, the neighbors complained when I started it in the morning; even though I pushed it all the way out to the street before hitting the start switch.
I eventually moved up to a 2000 Yamaha R6, and being the pigmy I was, I couldn’t have been more awkward and squid-like rolling out of Mountain Motorsports’ driveway the day I bought it. I’m sure the sales person was shaking his head and wondering, “What have I done?” I over revved the thing like crazy and fumbled with my feet to find the foot pegs, which were positioned up and behind me, a complete 180 from the Buell’s forward ergos. I’m glad I bought the R6 used. I must have dropped that bike 100 times figuring out that I couldn’t touch the ground. It seemed that everybody I knew lived on a damn hill and I went through a box of brake levers before I finally figured out how to ride that thing. I had some pretty harry moments on that bike, but I loved it and it eventually felt like it was part of me.
Since those frightening, awkward days as a newbie, I’ve finally come into my own. I’ve owned six different motorcycles, have raced with WSMC and CCS racing clubs, and I’ve moved past my first gear wheelie phase that plagued me on my 2004 GSXR 600. But that ended when I t-boned a lady who made a left turn in front of me, totaling the most fun bike I’ve ever owned. Years later, I eventually settled into the same safety role as my mother, when I became an MSF instructor.
Because I’ve been struggling to save my home, I sold my race bike and my street bike, leaving me two-wheel-less. Now I ride borrowed bikes from Kawasaki. Since I work in their Technical Services Department at the corporate office in Irvine, I get to borrow bikes from the loan pool, which is pretty darn cool. I’ve raced at Road America, wrenched for Melissa Paris, done countless rider training courses, graduated from MMI as a certified technician, written a few freelance articles, and assisted Joey Lombardo at press events as his assistant mechanic. To put it lightly, I’m glad I never quit. I’m glad I kept going, even when people told me I didn’t belong on a bike. Yes, it took me a good two years in the beginning for everything to click, but here I am, ten years later, a bonafide industry professional with some pretty awesome experiences under her belt.
Yes, I’ve had countless drops, crashed eight times which resulted in two broken bones and five surgeries because of riding, but I’ve also had some of the most rewarding and amazing experiences of a lifetime because of two wheels. If I didn’t ride, I wouldn’t have an identity. I wouldn’t be who I am. I’m finally at a point in my career where I can confidently say that I love riding and it’s what I’m good at. But even though I’ve spent ten years on the saddle and have clocked well over 100,000 miles between all the bikes I’ve ridden, I still never stop learning.
My best piece of advice to new riders is to never let anyone tell you that you can’t do it, for any reason. The only person that can defeat you is yourself. But if you can climb over the occasional wall that pops up, the rewards are endless. I say keep at it and never quit.
