Several years ago, to celebrate my 50th birthday, I created the “Margie Project,” a list of birthday experiences I wanted to celebrate with friends. Ranging from tame to risky, I let my friends choose which one they wanted to participate in with me, on a first-come, first-served basis.
My husband, David, wanted to participate, and since he was one of my best friends, I agreed. He asked to choose first, picked motorcycle lessons, and wasted no time signing us up.
David and I had always talked about riding motorcycles but had planned to wait until Zoe was old enough to take care of herself, in case we died while riding. She was 13 — not old enough to be on her own, but old enough that we didn’t feel too guilty about taking lessons. Just in case, we updated our wills with my brother-in-law as her guardian, and David signed us up for an intensive Saturday and Sunday motorcycle class (about 10 hours a day). My Mom wasn’t happy about it, and referred to it as “Concussion Weekend.”
I was excited and only had one major concern — the dress code. We were required to wear jeans and a long sleeve shirt and it was late March in South Florida. It was pretty warm at that time, and I had been having my own personal summer for many years. Plus, we had to buy motorcycle gloves and boots, which were pretty hard to find for small wide feet. The class provided helmets we could borrow, along with surgical caps, so my fears of lice and germs were greatly diminished.
On the first day of class, we were lucky to have no rain. The temperature reached 80 degrees or so and we were all sweating like pigs by the end of the day. We spent most of the morning in the classroom (the course was taught at a high school) and the rest of the time in the parking lot learning how to ride a motorcycle, take curves, deal with road debris, etc.
Several motorcycle classes were taking place that weekend. I was the only woman out of ten people in my class, and other than my husband and the instructor, I was the oldest. I made friends with an 18-year-old high school senior, C.J., whose grandfather was a motorcycle rider and had a bike ready for him to ride when he got his motorcycle license.
A couple of the students already owned and rode motorcycles. I wondered why they were taking the class to get their licenses. Didn’t they have licenses already? When I asked my instructor he looked at me like I was an idiot and said, “Do people smoke marijuana even when it’s illegal?” Uh, yes. “Well, lots of people ride motorcycles without a license, too.” O—kay. Note to self and others: That motorcycler on the road may not have a license. Keep your distance!
One guy in the class looked to be in his early thirties. He was an experienced rider and liked to talk. Even though one of the riding instructors was a woman, he made several aggravating misogynistic remarks during class and outside during the riding portion. I almost said something to him after the instructor was talking about blowback and suction riding a motorcycle past a truck (he said he liked to get sucked and blown on the road) but I was too busy trying to learn everything and sneak peeks at the six foot six 21-year-old originally from South Africa who could have been an Abercrombie and Fitch model.
On Sunday late morning, we took the written test, and all of us passed. After lunch, we would do a few more practice runs and then the riding tests.
I messed up the first riding test, which was frustrating because I had no problem weaving in and out of closely spaced cones during practice. I know I was nervous, but I also thought this was a stupid exercise. Unless I was planning on becoming a stuntwoman, when would I be weaving in and out of cones?
The next test was officially the toughest. We had to make a U-turn in a very small area and come to a stop in a small box. After I completed it perfectly, all the guys clapped. The misogynist even gave me a high-five and congratulated me, which immediately made me feel nicer toward him.
I missed points on the last three tests but was still hopeful. Wouldn’t they tell me if I hadn’t passed?
After all the tests we went back into the classroom and learned about insurance and were told that we would be told individually about our evaluations.
I was the last person in line during the riding tests, and the instructor sat down one-on-one with everyone to give each person the results. My husband was one of the early riders and was told he passed. C.J., the 18-year-old, was told he received an almost perfect score. Finally, it was my turn. The instructor didn’t mince words. “Unfortunately, you didn’t pass.”
He told me I could take the test again next weekend, and maybe I should try to spend both Saturday and Sunday afternoons doing the riding training. When I got up from the evaluation, C.J. looked at me and I shook my head. I shook my head at my husband, too.
Years ago I almost came to blows with a business coach who asked a group of us to share our biggest failure. When it was my turn, I said that I didn’t believe in failure and didn’t have any failures. Instead, I felt that failures are really lessons we learn that help us become better. Failure was not in my vocabulary. We argued and never came to an agreement.
My “no failure” stance had become one of my biggest mantras. But failing the riding test made me rethink the whole failure thing. It was hard to argue this one away. Yes, I failed at something. And it felt f-ing awful.
I waited until we got to the car to start crying. It was bad enough that I was achy, exhausted, and sweating after two grueling 10-hour days, but I had to do it again the next weekend, with no guarantee that I would pass the riding test. And would I have other chances to take the test before I failed for good? Now I was getting a taste of the frustration of my friends’ kids who were a point or two away from getting the minimum grades necessary on their ACTs and SATs to receive Florida Bright Futures scholarships.
David tried to make me feel better. “I’m still uncomfortable riding on the motorcycle.” Duh – we only had a 2-day class and anyway he passed all the tests.
After crying and railing against the unfairness of the types of riding tests we had to do, thinking I was too old to do this (not working as of course my husband passed the riding test and is almost two years older than me), getting commiseration from friends and having a night to sleep on it, I decided to take the test the next weekend.
This may surprise you: I didn’t pass the test the second weekend. I was allowed one more chance (three times was the limit) to take the test. By the time I took the third class (a month later), I was ready to tear my hair out. But I can tell you that passing the test (finally!) was an incredible feeling.
In hindsight, this experience was a terrific way to start off my Margie Project. I learned to pick myself up and dust myself off (literally). Yes, I had failed at something. But it led me to push myself to try harder until I succeeded.
I’m also happy to share some tips that could also be useful to you if you take a motorcycle class. One is that even if you apply sunscreen on your face, your nose will still get sunburned. Also, even though I wore a long-sleeved shirt, I ended up with a sunburn ring around my neck, which is something I never hope to have again. It looks so weird, so wear sunscreen on your neck if you’re spending time outside even if you have on a long-sleeved shirt.
I think my presence in class was the universe’s way of helping the misogynist become more open-minded. When the class ended he was saying that he might tell his girlfriend to sign up for this course. Maybe seeing me pass the U-turn test made him realize that anyone, even a woman, can ride.