Wild, Wicked, Red Amanda

A few minutes before 7:00 p.m. on Friday, August 5, 1993, I wandered about North Harris County College looking for my class. Eventually, I came upon four people waiting outside a classroom.

"Is this where the Motorcycle Riding course meets?"

A lady answered, "Yes, this is the classroom, but the instructor hasn't arrived."

While waiting, I recalled when I first became fascinated with motorcycles. During the mid-1940s, pharmacies employed teenagers to deliver prescription medication. The delivery boys rode Service Cycles. These bikes were painted in a dull black and rode on skinny tires. Yet to me, they suggested freedom to roam.

My parents objected to motorcycles. Occasionally, we would see Indians and Harleys racing about the neighborhoods ridden by scruffy riders with tattooed arms. Folks considered the riders wild and the bikes dangerous. Knowing how my parents felt, my interest lay dormant until many years later. Then I saw Steve McQueen riding a motorcycle in the movie The Great Escape. His exploits excited me. I promised myself that some day, I'd ride a motorcycle. When you're within kissing distance of sixty, it's time to convert somedays into nowdays, so, I had signed up for a motorcycle course.

Coming out of my reverie, I heard someone say that a motorcycle had arrived. We looked out a window. The rider wore dark leather clothing and a space-adventure helmet covered his head to the shoulders. Dismounting, he walked towards the building. Entering through the double glass doors, he grasped his helmet in front and lifted it up and back in one smooth, dramatic gesture. Surprise — the rider was a girl! And a pretty one at that. She tossed her head from side to side shaking out her hair, smiled brightly and said, "Sorry I'm late. Let's get on with it."

She arranged her teaching materials and began removing her riding outfit. There were large metal zippers, flaps and buttons on each arm, down the front and up each leg. Unzipping here and unbuttoning there, she smiled a smile as old and enticing as the Rocky Mountains. Two teen-aged boys grinned at each other. She held our attention. A few tugs and several wiggles later, the leather coveralls dropped away. I didn't see any tattoos.

She introduced herself as Amanda Ferranti. She said, "I've been riding for twelve years. My motorcycle is my only transportation. It gets me to the malls. I even go grocery shopping on my bike. I love to ride. Michael Martin will help me teach the course. He will be with us tomorrow. We're going to teach you how to ride safely and enjoy a motorcycle."

Someone asked, "What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a CPA. I work downtown."

For the next twenty minutes, we filled out forms that absolved God, the United States, the State of Texas, the City of Houston and Harris County from any and all responsibility in the event of injury, incapacitation or death. What are they trying to tell me?

Several safety films emphasized the need for protective clothing: helmets, boots, gloves and leather, padded pants and jackets. We learned to buy the most expensive helmet one can afford. Treat it with care. Never, I mean ever, ride in shorts and flip-flops.

Saturday morning we assembled at 7:00 a.m. in the parking lot. While waiting for Amanda and Michael, I found out that everyone had been riding for some time. I, on the other hand, had never been on a motorcycle. I began to feel uncomfortable, foolish and apprehensive.

Amanda arrived and opened the bike barn. I selected a red Honda 250 Nighthawk. It sort of lounged back on its kickstand and glared at me out of its Cyclops headlight, as if it knew I was a novice. Why not name it Red Amanda after our teacher?

Pairing up, we alternated pushing each other on our motorcycle with the engine off — across the parking lot. This tested our balancing skills. We learned the proper starting sequence: turn the gas on, prime the engine (choke out), ignition on, gears in neutral and hit the starter. Gas Pins is an easy way to remember it.

With the engine running, we practiced letting out the clutch (left handle-bar lever) into "friction zone" — the point where the engine just begins to transmit power to the rear wheel. We would move about ten feet forward under power but keeping our feet on the ground, stop and slowly release the clutch partially and move another ten feet forward under power.

Satisfied that everyone could manage, Amanda told us to ride around the parking lot in low gear. We were to follow an oval shaped course about 100 yards on the straights and fifty or so yards on the curves. Then we practiced weaving through an obstacle course of rubber traffic cones. The drill was to take the first cone on your left, swerve left and pass the next cone on your right, swerve right and pass the third cone on your left and so on. This was a slow speed accident avoidance maneuver.

Next, Michael laid out a narrow lane (about five feet wide) course that had four ninety-degree turns with appropriate gear change points identified. Riders accelerated through first and second gears past a check point, where they had to decelerate while downshifting to make a smooth right hand turn without hitting any boundary cones. Exiting the turn under power, they up shifted. At the next marker cone, they braked and downshifted to take another right hand turn and so on.

We had been riding for several hours. But my Red Amanda — beautifully dressed in brilliant red paint, coiffed with every nut and bolt in place, and scented with gasoline — would not cooperate. I couldn't feed the gas (throttle) smoothly. I tried a slow hand. I tried a gentle touch. Nothing worked. When Red Amanda wasn't bucking, she shuttered, shook and wobbled. She was a naughty, wicked girl. I could not hold a steady speed in a semi-straight line. My performance was awful.

During this time, I discovered a fundamental fact about motorcycles: the AC works as long as you're moving. When stopped, you roast in your own juices. The sun pounded down and the temperature climbed to 100°F.

Amanda called us in for a break by crossing her wrists under her chin. On the course, hand signals communicated instructions to the riders. I drank a pint of Gator Aid while resting under some pine trees at the edge of the parking lot.

Amanda said, "You must pass the final exam to get the completion certificate. You accelerate to fifty, and when you pass the yellow cone, brake hard. You fail if you skid or don't stop within 140 feet. Pay more attention. Your motorcycle will go in the direction you are looking. If you look down, you'll go down. If you look at a hole in the road, you will hit it. Don't ask me to explain it. It just happens."

Michael added, "Keep your head up and swiveling about. Your eyes are your primary defense. The earlier you detect a hazard, the more time you have to avoid it. When you turn to the right or left, turn your head and look where you are going. And remember, you don't want to look like a novice. Squeeze your knees in against the bike. Hold your head up; don't look like a turtle."

Some questions followed. We mounted up. Michael demonstrated what he wanted the class to do. He rode around the course effortlessly. The only indication we had that he was changing gears was the sound of the engine as it rose and fell from one gear to another. I was impressed at how easy he made it look.

We mounted up and took off. When I tried to follow Michael's example, I grew more and more frustrated. I couldn't manage anything well and some maneuvers not at all. The heat from the sun and reflected off the tarmac seared my eyes and sapped my energy. Five hours of riding and heat had exhausted me.

Then came the pass-or-fail test, a panic stop in a straight line. This test loomed larger and larger in my mind; I had been worrying about it for the past two hours. Will I make a fool out of myself? The first student blasted down the straight, applied his brakes and slid off to the right. He failed to stop in a straight line two more times and flunked. The second student failed on three attempts, but the third and fourth students passed. I grew more anxious with each passing minute.

Now it was my turn. I gunned the engine to get my courage up. I pleaded with Red Amanda to behave herself and I said a prayer. Off we went with my eyes locked on a tree two hundred yards directly ahead. Accelerating up to speed, Red Amanda's growls became a ripping shriek, and she settled down gripping the pavement. Passing the first cone, my speedometer read 55 MPH. We were flying when we passed the second cone and I braked as hard as I dared. Glory be, we stopped in a straight line. What an anticlimax. I had passed. No one was more surprised or pleased than me. Stroking Red Amanda, I said, "You done good, old girl."

As I was leaving, Amanda asked, "Well, Cal, how do you like motorcycling?"

I looked at her for a long moment, took a breath and said, "Amanda, it's like apple pie and ice cream. I can never get enough, but right now, I've had about all I can stand."