Riding story, take 2. Action!
The best riding story? Hmm… About horseback riding I have a lot of stories (including cows, tractors, geese, cemetery for bridle and a floating bathtub). Since I'm having my bike only for the second year now, I don’t have many stories of it yet. But one of my favourites is the story of how I got my bike. Here’s how it went:
I was born in November in the year… Naah! Just kidding.
One lazy warm week last summer I had a couple of days off from work. Just in a week before the previous one I had finally passed my drivers exam. The second one of them. (The first one I had failed completely almost before it even started and that totally pissed me off. And from that failed exam I had to go straight to a psychological evaluation for my job placement. You can well guess how that interview went… But I’m still in the same job, mind ya’! But that’s a whole different story.) Well, there I was. I finally had the adequate licence to drive a full powered motorcycle. Me! A young silly horse girl with two long braids and some vague idea that there were at least two types of motorcycles in the world; Harley‘s and those the ordinary people drove. I had indeed surprised even myself.
A friend of mine had borrowed me his bike for a week. (Yes I know, I don’t understand either). But oh, I was wild and free! I could see with my minds eye how I would drive to the sunset with the front tire eating away miles and miles of hot black smooth asphalt. Oh, what a thrill! Indeed what a thrill it would be to drive miles and miles to the next gas station with almost empty tank… On a bumpy road… Oh, and did I mention the bugs? They start swarming at sunset… And the elks get on the move. And why the hell would anyone want to drive to the sunset?!? You can’t see anything and it’s getting cold and dark.
But back to the original story. The first day off work I headed to the great winding roads with my borrowed bike, new drivers licence and a mismatched goretex-suit. Oh, I was so proud of myself. If this didn’t earn me some respect, then what would. Look, I’m a biker! See me go!… Button?… What button?… I knew that… Of course the engine starts from the button… Who said I was trying to turn it on from the key…
From somewhere along the way I called a friend from work who lived in that direction to ask a good place to have a cup of coffee and to take a break. Well, he invited me over to grab a bite and to chatter for awhile as they were home anyway with his family. There the conversation of course turned to bikes and driving. And before I knew it we were calling to one guy whose bike I had asked more about a few days back.
By that day I had decided what kind of bike I wanted and checked a few choices at local stores. I had picked a few that were for sale for a closer check-out. (But picking the right kind of bike is probably even a longer story that this one. Lets just say that my reasoning was not the most rational. But as my signature says; trying to guide a woman’s mind is a waste of time.) We agreed that I could come to see and try the bike the same day. So I left the borrowed Kawasaki at my friends house and we left with his Honda (in which the back seat is not the most comfortable). My friends driving style is a bit -hmm- reckless. So after a notable quantity of curses and almost banging him with my fist a few times, I only hoped to get where we were going in one piece. And when I finally got off the bike with wobbly knees, I didn’t even yell at him. Much. Only reminded him that in Finland we have this thing called speed limit. Yeah, who would have known it is illegal to go 90@60.
Anyway. The guy we had called showed us the bike, started the engine and so on. My friend checked that the bike was in good shape and was working as it should. Then I took it for a test drive. Damn, I was nervous. The only times I had actually driven any motorcycle before that was the few lessons in the driving school and then two trips on that borrowed bike. Forget the cruising to sunset! I was glad I didn’t drop the bike or do anything else as stupid. Krhmm… “Hey, funny! The front end doesn’t move when I turn the handle bars!” “Noooup… The upper fairing is attached to the frame. I would be concerned if it did move…“ “Ooooooh!… So it is!…”
We drove a short round, me with the FZ6 and my friend with his Honda. At the end of the round we stopped for awhile and my friend asked me how the bike felt and how it was to drive. Yeah… Ask a sea urchin what it feels like to climb Himalaya. I had no idea what the right answer was. I just mumbled with small voice “I think I could manage with this thing”. And that’s about it.
We went back where the guy lived. I have many weird tendencies but buying bikes every now and then and carrying thousands of euros in my back pocket isn’t one of them. So of course I didn’t have the needed money with me. Luckily it was okay with the guy that I paid by bank transfer, as I could do that via internet at his place. As we used the same bank, he could check that the money showed in his bank account right the way. We then finished the paperwork and outside he gave me the keys and bid safe journey home. And there I was standing beside a beautiful big motorcycle, holding in my shaking hand a fistful of motorcycle keys and a sales contract with my name in it. That took the words “Honey, I’m going shopping!” to a whole new level.
The dark blue paint of the tank gleamed in the late afternoon sun. The cat-like front lights stared at me challengingly. I guess I looked a bit stunned at the moment. At least that how I felt when I finally realised that my friend was talking to me. Eh, how do I feel? Let me take a minute. Or a day. Or better yet, ask me again next week. Wow! The drive back to my friends house was like a dream. I was driving my own bike!
But I still had one problem. Or two, to be exact. It was already past ten pm and getting dark and I was 70 miles from home with two bikes. Obviously I had to leave one of them there, but which one to choose; my precious or the borrowed one which I had to take back to its owner in a couple of days. To be or not to be: that is the question. My friend was leaving on a vacation the next day and since I had no idea when I would get a chance to come and pick up the other bike, I decided to leave my precious and take back the borrowed bike.
I got back home tired but safe. I had gone to bed already whet it truly hit me. I owned a freaking motorcycle! Immediate reaction: a huge grin! And I was even happier the next day when my friend called and told me they were coming to my direction anyway so he could drive the bike to me. He did as he had promised and had even washed the bike for me. Great! And then: “Oh, by the way. Be careful with the back break, it’s pretty sensitive. I almost…” Wait. Stop. Information overflow! Warning! Information overflow! System breakdown, self-explosion activated! “Please, don’t tell me you almost wrecked my bike?!? What did you do with it? No, I don’t want to know!” Thank God it was only almost.
And that’s how I got my FZ6. This was going to be a short story. Really. It was. No, don’t say it got out of hand. It didn’t. If it had, the story would be ten pages long and be written in a form of a poem. I’m a woman for crying out loud! I am totally incapable of expressing myself in brief. Sorry.
