Index:
Part 1

I didn’t get my M class license until I was 30; technically 31. Graduated licensing was a new concept to me, being just old enough to have missed it when I received my drivers license at 16. Since my mother was dead set against me getting my M license, I had to wait until I was 19. That 3 year wait, while trivial, had enough life changing moments to forget about that desire. Girls, growing up a tiny amount, moving out on my own, college. All those added up to a dream I forgot about.

For several years, I went without. I would jump on a dirt bike here and there, or ride a quad, but nothing of my own. I did get a Raleigh portage comfort bicycle around 2005, which was better than nothing. I actually still have it, tucked away in my garage. I even pump up the tires and lube up the chain every spring, telling myself this is the year I will use it again. It never is. Aside from owning a a couple of cars, and a truck, not much happened between 1996 when I sold the CR250, and 2007. By 2007 I owned my own house, was married, stable job, and was once again expanding my horizons. I wanted a dirt bike. I had suffered a back injury about 3 years before, and wasn’t interested in something small, like a minibike or a pit bike. I was looking for something larger, but not too powerful.

Initially, I set my eyes on a Honda XR250R. That lasted about 2 days before I realized I couldn’t afford one. The idea of taking a loan out for a dirt bike seemed insane at the time, and still does. So I looked around, and eventually settled on a Chinese knock off of the CRF250. I found a GIO 250, just finished it’s break in, the original protective plastic still on the seat, for sale by the original owner, for a reasonable price; $1800. I could see why it was for sale, the gentlemen was 5’6”, at most, while the bike had a 35” seat height. His wife was making him sell it. I pulled out $1600 in cash, and the deal was done. 250cc of Chinese power made by Lifan, on a really sturdy frame, electric start, with shocks and brakes that worked. It was already way better than my old Honda Elsinore CR250.

I spent a lot of spring and summer of 2007 just riding around trails up near Bon Echo park. The GIO wasn’t fast, but it was reliable, and had enough power to climb any hill I was brave enough to attempt. It kept up with the others on quads without issue, and could get places they couldn’t. I felt younger than I had in a while, constantly reminded of my mid teens, and summers spent on the trails. More importantly, though, was the experience coming back to me. They say you never forget to ride a bike, and while I will agree it’s partially true, it’s not all true. I had to learn how to finesse the clutch again. How to shift gears properly, and remember to down shift. It took several failed hill starts, and a couple of drops to really get that one back. The joy was there again. Wind across my face, and that sense of flying.

During the same time period in 2007, I was being encouraged to get my M class license by my wife of the time. She in fact purchased the M1 exit course, the motorcycle safety course to pass the first stage of M class licensing in Ontario, as my 30th birthday present. At the drive test office, I wrote and passed the written tests, and was granted my M1 permit. Then, in July of 2007, for 5 nights during a single week, I spent 4 hours an evening in a parking lot at the local college.

The first night, we were pushing the motorcycles, a collection of dirt bikes and beginner bikes, around the lot. You would sit on a bike, while someone pushed it, and then you would push, while someone sat on the bike. It was embarrassing. The idea was to get a feel for the balance, and the braking, before the engines were on, and we could get into real trouble. I scoffed to myself, but played along. About half way through that first night, while I wasn’t exactly learning much, I realized a lot of people were. It was a little sobering, and I tried to be less negative about the first night. I assumed people taking a course like this would all be like me, avid dirt bikers with years of experience, looking to hit the pavement. There were people like that, but the majority were people just wanting to try something different. Better than half the class had never been on a dirt bike, or motorcycle, of any kind. It made the whole experience quite entertaining at times. I picked out the largest bike they had available, a Yamaha TTR230, which was still pretty small with me on it.

The second night, we had the motors running, and spent over an hour learning to feel for the friction zone of the clutch. A whole hour not actually going anywhere. Once we had that down, we finally rode. About 100 feet, in a straight line, and then stopped at a line of marker cones. We then turned the bikes around, by hand, not under power, and rode back; in a straight line, 100 feet, and stopped. Somewhere in here I got frustrated, and instead of turning around by hand, I zipped over to an empty spot, did a couple of circles, turned around, and lined up again. One of the instructors promptly asked me to get off the bike, and take a break. I was stood off to one side, and asked to wait. It was frustrating, irritating, and annoying. A lot of money had been paid for the course. I expected to be part of the course. The same instructor came over after a few minutes to talk to me. I expected him to be angry, threaten to kick me out of the course, etc… Instead, he was pretty great. I wish I could remember the gentlemen’s name, because he was truly a good teacher. He explained that I obviously knew how to ride, and that while the early parts of the course might be frustrating to me, it was important I play along to not upset the other students. Fair point. The next part was harder for me to accept, because he then explained that while I knew how to ride a dirt bike, I did not know how to ride a motorcycle. This was made more funny by the fact that I was taking the course on a dirt bike. I listened though, and approached it all with an open mind; for the most part.

The rest of the course is largely a blur, because it was hot, and busy, and fun. Honestly, fun. A friend of mine took the course last year, and I nearly joined him just for the fun aspect. We learned emergency evasion techniques. Low speed handling. Proper cornering techniques. Look where you want to go. What counter steering is, and how it works. Laughed at the one guy who insisted that was wrong, and tried to prove he was right, attempting to directly steer the bike, and turning out of his turns each time. Spent hours just zipping around in second and third gear (first and second on the street bikes) on obstacle courses. Slaloms. The most nerve racking was a lesson where one of the instructors stood at the end of a lane, about 100m long. We had to get up to speed, and the instructor would at the last second indicate which way we need to swerve, with a flag. We were going no more than 30km/h, but it felt a lot faster. When the instructor was getting closer and closer to you, and still not indicating which way to go, you would start to panic. Some students would stop, just stop in the middle of the lane. One dropped his bike in a very slow low side. One student actually made the instructor run when he target fixated on the instructor. It was easy to imagine you were going to hit the instructor, and that he was never going to point his flag. He of course did, and with plenty of room, and you would evade. That was the lesson, look for the opening, and evade, don’t touch your brakes. It was a very valuable lesson, possibly the most important. Evade, don’t stop. Stopping leaves you open to be hit from behind. And on the course went like that. Some students dropped their bikes. Most didn’t. No major accidents.

The last day is your test, and it’s when you realize that everything they had you practicing is the test. The tone shifts. The instructors are no longer coaching, instead they’re queuing us up. There is one thing going around, don’t drop your bike. It’s an instant fail if you drop your bike. No pressure, well not for me anyway. For a few others though, lots of pressure. And away we go, taking turns, running the same obstacles we have all week, but this time we’re being marked. I very nearly panicked on the emergency evasion test, but did good. All in all, I passed with only a single mark off the whole test. I was pretty happy about that fact. Some others in my class did not fair as well. One older gentlemen dropped his bike on a low speed portion in a corner. One younger man failed by not doing well enough on all of the tests combined. Out of roughly 30 people, 28 of us passed; graduating to a M2 license, to wait 18 months to take the final test to be granted our M license. 22 months, if you didn’t take the M1 exit course. I was a licensed motorcyclist now, with the only restrictions being zero alcohol, and no passengers. It was pretty exciting, but I didn’t run out and buy a motorcycle just yet. Firstly, I wasn’t ready financially. Secondly, I was still enjoying the dirt bike life, and wasn’t feeling an overwhelming need to get on the road just yet. The M1 exit course had sobered me on some of my preconceptions around my own skill level, leaving me a little apprehensive. I was okay with waiting a little.

Do you remember learning to ride a bicycle? I do. I was 4 going on 5, in the driveway of my childhood home, my father anxiously teaching me. The bicycle was orange metallic flake, with a banana seat and ape hanger bars. Very late 70’s. I remember two things about that experience. Not the falling down, though there must have been lots of that. I remember the wind against my face, and the sense of freedom as I rode in circles, probably very wobbly, but in my memories smoothly. The sense of flying. That was my take away from my initial experience on two wheels; flying.

In 1983, when I turned 6, my parents bought me a Raleigh BMX bicycle in royal blue, with canary yellow 5 star plastic mag spoke wheels. They hid it at our neighbors house, with a long string attached to it, and the other end my birthday card. I don’t remember the excitement very well, but I do remember what that bicycle felt like. It was freedom for me. I had that bicycle until I was 14, though heavily modified and repaired in that time; it did have the same frame and mag wheels, though not much else was stock by then. Over the intervening 8 years, I rode everywhere. Hundreds of kilometers. A short, and very unsuccessful, stint BMX racing. Lots of jump ramps built from scrap wood. Several back tires, because leaving “J” shaped skids by locking the rear wheel was too much fun. It was stolen once when I was about 11, and for a whole month it was lost to me. I found it at the subsidized housing complex just over a kilometer away after a friend of mine spotted it. There was only one royal blue Raleigh with yellow mag wheels, and a seat post made out of welding two seat posts together in Pickering at the time. It was repainted twice. The handlebars were replaced twice, because I would break them. The goose neck was replaced once, because I snapped the original off in a bad landing. I wore a chain out completely. Front and rear sprockets. Multiple seats. Most of the bike was replaced over the years.

I loved that bike. I loved the feeling of flying it inspired. Cutting slaloms down the road with it; coasting down a steep hill, hands off the bars and out to my sides; jumping down stairs near my house, leading from a sidewalk to a parking lot. My little blue bike and I flew everywhere we went. I don’t know what happened to it ultimately. Through a rather strange turn in my life, at 13, we moved from Pickering in Ontario to Plano Texas. When I say we, I mean my mother, my brother, and myself. My father and his new wife stayed in Ontario. My bike was left with my father. I missed it. My dad, trying his best, shipped it to me in pieces. Looking back at this, I don’t know how my father managed. I’m 42, a father of two, and recently divorced. I have a hard time when my kids are away for their week with their mother. My father saw us every other weekend for a couple of years, and then we moved out of the country. He didn’t see us for 4 months. My kids were away for two weeks last year, and it was one of the single most difficult experiences of my adult life.

I turned 14 in Texas, with my faithful bicycle. By then I was 6’1” and a whopping 140lbs. Despite the modifications over the years, the bicycle bought for an above average 6 year old, was no longer working for way above average 14 year old me. Texas was hard for me in a lot of ways. The obvious things, like the heat, going to school in a different country, or being made fun of for being Canadian, were not so bad. The reason we moved to Texas was the wrong reason; my mother chasing a relationship that was doomed. I was forced to grow up a lot in a short time, and to let go of a lot of childhood. We left Texas abruptly after 4 months there. I left my bicycle with a boy a little younger than me, who wasn’t as well off as we were, and didn’t have one. I don’t know if he loved it the way I did. I don’t know if he felt like he was flying when he rode it. I hope he did. I don’t know what happened to it. My well loved, royal blue Raleigh. I hope it saw many years more of joy.

Coming back to Canada was strange. It was winter time when we did come back. We moved to a completely different part of Ontario, from the small city of Pickering to a small country town. I was very different then when I had left. A little less innocent. One big thing, I was done with bicycles. I had one, a brand new purple mountain bike, with 18 speeds, and front and rear brakes. I hated it. It was cheap, and felt wrong. When I visited my father, he would let me ride his larger silver mountain bike. I liked it a little better, but I was chasing a feeling that was gone. My father had a small dirt bike from when I was younger. He liked to ride it around our backyard with us on it; a 1971, possibly 1970, Honda Z50. It was small, under powered, fairly ridiculous, and dark blue with a white stripe on the tank. Dad brought it over on a trailer one day in the spring after we’d come back to Canada, and gave it to me. Something about it brought me back to my beloved Raleigh. I rode the shit out of it.

Every day I could, after school, on the weekend, onto the minibike, and on to the trails. 3 gears, no clutch, and endless fun. I learned about points ignition, because I swamped it a few times. I learned about slide carburettors, because I had to tinker with it a few times. I learned how to replace cables, because I snapped the throttle cable a couple of times. I met friends with quads and dirt bikes, and at 14 going on 15 I was going on group trail rides. In the summer we’d leave early, and be gone the whole day. I don’t think we ever got further than 10km from home, but we’d go all over. Take lunches and snacks, lots of water, extra fuel, axes, rope. You name it, we’d strap it to one of the 4 wheeler’s, and go. We’d make “camps”, chop down trees and lash them together with ropes to build shelters. We’d play games. Sometimes we’d bring air rifles with us, and shoot cans. One time someone snuck their fathers lever action rifle out of the house, and we all took turns trying it out. We would periodically play a game where one person would yell “scramble”, and we’d all run to the quads and dirt bikes and take off. The fun was taking someone else’s bike or quad, so no one left on what they’d arrived with. It was my chance to try a quad for the first time, or a 3 wheeler, and even larger dirt bikes. There was the freedom I was missing.

Around the time I turned 17 one of my fathers neighbors gave me an old dirt bike he had in his back shed. It was a 1973 Honda Elsinore CR250, and it didn’t run, but it was mostly complete. At this time, the old Z50 was with my younger brother, and I was mainly riding my step dad’s Suzuki quad. I missed riding a dirt bike, the sense of flying you only get with a 2 wheeled vehicle. I set out, with the help of my father, to get it running. The main problem was the rubber connecting the carb to the intake manifold. Honda made it one piece, proprietary rubber glued to the aluminium header. It was impossible to find a replacement. I was very interested in metal working, and at my high school’s machine shop, I chucked up the manifold on a lathe, and created a flange on the aluminium, shaving away the factory rubber. This allowed me to use, with the assistance of a heat gun and some hose clamps, a short length of generic coolant hose from a car. Just like that I had a running dirt bike. A 250cc, 2 stoke beast, with a knackered swing arm bushing, blown shock seals, no kick stand, and a kick starter playfully named the “widow maker” by riders in the 70’s. The handling was terrible; it would only turn if you kicked the rear wheel loose. Kicking the rear wheel loose required you to really hit the throttle hard in the power band; the power band was about 500 rpm wide. This required you to know the corner, and the gear you needed to be in, to hit the power band just right, to kick the rear wheel loose. The kick starter would either attempt to toss you over the bars, or perform some kungfu maneuver that resulted in the kick starter hitting you in the shin, if you weren’t assertive enough when kicking it over. I learned a lot riding that death trap, mainly about 2 stoke motors. I sold it to a friend for $100 a couple of months before I turned 19, and moved out on my own. I don’t think it actually killed him, but I haven’t seen him since, so who knows. Neil, hopefully the beast didn’t kill you.

After the old Honda CR250, I didn’t own another dirt bike for nearly 10 years. Life happened. Love, heartbreak, depression, joy. All the usual cliches, and some new ones I’m sure. I realize all I’ve actually talked about here is bicycles and dirt bikes, not real motorcycles. I know. To me, all of this, is a journey; one I’m still taking. Some parts of me, when I’m going down the road on my motorcycle, are still that 6 year old boy, finding joy in the freedom and the flight. Telling you, dear reader, about who I was and how I got here, I hope will convey some of that emotion. I promise I’ll talk about real motorcycles in the next post.

I’m 6’7”, or just over 2m, tall. I’ve been that way for 25 years. I’ve had all sorts of problems over those 25 years.

Hitting my head on just about everything. Signs, literally everywhere, hung just low enough to be a problem. Door frames in older buildings that are exactly 6’6”. Hydraulic door closers hanging from door frames. Tree branches over sidewalks trimmed for everyone, and everything, below 6 feet.

Finding clothes that fit. Size 15 feet? Good luck finding those shoes off the shelf. 34” inseam, 38”+ waist? Nope. For some reason once your waist size is over 36”, there is some crazy conspiracy that your legs must be 30” or shorter. Long sleeves on, well, anything? Yeah, you guessed it, you’re out of luck.

Every single place I’ve lived, the kitchen doesn’t fit. What’s that mean, you might be wondering? Can you touch the bottom of your sink? I can’t. Not while standing up straight that is. I can hunch over and touch it, of course, but you try to spend any time hunched over without causing yourself some significant back pain. How about bathrooms? Toilets that are both too small, and too low; same sink issues. Go ahead and laugh about that, it’s okay. I’ve laughed about it enough myself over the years.

Those are just my everyday troubles. I’m used to it, as I expect some of you are that might be reading this. It’s just the way the world is. Where I get truly annoyed is with cars and motorcycles. I understand, they’re designed to fit the “average” human being. Rigidly designed with that average range between about 5’2” to 5’11”, leaving out the rest of us above that average; and below. For my purposes, I’m more interested in the above average.

That’s where my focus is, and what I’m going to be exploring here. The experience of being well above average, and how that impacts my life when it comes to cars and motorcycles, things I’m enthusiastic about. I’m sure I’ll include random other musings here, mostly related to my hobbies, of which there are a lot, but the main focus will be around motor vehicles.