Adults could learn from a child rider

When is a riding lesson not a riding lesson?

 I watched my granddaughter learn to ride a bicycle the other day. 

I didn't teach her to ride; the bicycle itself taught her. 

Watching this happen was a lesson. How much more could I learn about motorcycling, if I approached riding on two wheels the way she did: letting the machine show me how it works, instead of imposing my own textbook on it? 

My granddaughter is late in life to be learning to ride; a bit more than eight years old. I'd bought the bike for her more than four years ago, but it languished on the porch. The tires were generally flat. 

Her parents were wary of it, for good reason. They live in a neighborhood with no sidewalks, but plenty of cars parked on both sides of the street. It's very hilly. A rider could build up a lot of speed going downhill to a busy intersection.

Riding on the street is a lot for a young child to tackle, especially on the bare bones bicycle I'd purchased used. Cheaply made, in China, it has only a coaster brake on the rear wheel, and the ergonomics are poor.

It's a kiddie bike, but the pedal crank appears to be made for a larger bicycle. The young rider reaches for the bottom pedal, while the top pedal forces her other leg unnaturally high.

Worst of all, the bicycle has always had training wheels. These were necessary at first just to get the kid on the bike: they look like safety devices, but they function unsafely. They cause the bike to lean out of a turn, the exact wrong thing to do.

This visit, granddaughter had agreed to try out the bike in a safe park near her home. It wasn't an ideal excursion: she was in a skirt, when pants would have been safer. Her helmet was too loose on her, but no adjustment was welcome. And it was raining!

Yet somehow it seemed like the time to do this. So we went to the park.

She wobbled around an unused tennis court for awhile. I could see that, when the bike leaned to the outside of a turn, that side's training wheel would actually "jack" the rear wheel off the ground, threatening a crash.

I pointed out that her problem was the training wheels, and she herself asked to have them removed.

Bingo!

I'd brought a pliers just in case this opportunity arose. Freed of the risk of being tipped over by the training wheels, the kid quickly realized that a little speed made the bicycle more stable.

This experience quickly extended to realization that sweeping turns, with a little speed, are more comfortable than slowing to a wobble and making a tight turn.

I struggled to keep my mouth shut for fear of spoiling this. She was learning at her own speed, faster than any "tips" I could have offered.

It was marvelous to see. She eventually called for her parents to be summoned, to witness her proud accomplishment.

I had one regret: I really felt her father should have been the one to give her the initial push that would propel her into motion. I remembered my own dad giving me that fateful shove, and I remember doing it for my two daughters.

But this time there was no shove, no trotting alongside until I was out of breath, no worrying about what would happen if the kid went down, no heart-in-the-mouth final push on the bicycle seat.

None of that.

She and the bicycle just rode.

The Royal Enfield shines, but rider is rusty

 Never mind rust on the motorcycle: how fast does a rider get "rusty"? 

We'd been out of town, away from my Royal Enfield, for a month. The weather was perfect for a ride, so I suited up, planning to take the motorcycle to fill the tank. 

After a month away, getting some fresh gas seemed like a good idea. 

But I was rusty. 

No sooner did I kick start the Royal Enfield than I realized I didn't have my gloves. I was all ready to go. The motorcycle was running. I considered riding without gloves, just this once.

But thoughts of what a fall could do to my hands prevailed. Regretfully I switched off the motorcycle and headed inside the house to get the gloves.

They weren't where I normally keep them! I figured I must have left them in the pockets of my other jacket.

No, the gloves weren't there either. Never mind. I'd just use my spare pair.

But those weren't where I thought they'd be either. What the... ?

I realized that I would have taken the original pair into the garage when I went to get the motorcycle. And there they were, "hiding" under the edge of an upside down canoe, where they had fallen.

OK. Gloves on hands, I headed back to the motorcycle.

Mounting up I realized that the rearview mirrors were out of adjustment. They must have moved when I put a dust sheet over the bike before leaving town.

Damn, you know how I hate adjusting those mirrors!

Moving them loosens them and, with the vibrations of the motor the mirrors are soon swinging merrily backwards and forwards as the motorcycle picks up or loses speed.

Still, it had to be done. I took a chance and just barely touched them to make the adjustment.

OK. Finally! Ready to go at last.

Only as I let out the clutch did I remember that I hadn't first checked the tire pressures. I decided to chance riding anyway; it had only been a month since the last check; surely they'd be OK?

The throttle seemed to feel a bit unfamiliar, since I had only just struggled to remove and replace it before leaving town. OK. I guess this is the way it feels now. Get used to it.

At the first intersection my boot heel failed to find the neutral finder lever. You have to rely on muscle memory to locate it, and my muscles had forgotten.

This ride was getting a bit frustrating.

Traffic was heavy, and my dance with the neutral finder, so important in traffic, continued to go badly.

How could I have forgotten how to do this, in only a month!

OK, at last, here is the gas station.

I undid the gas cap and reached for the pump handle. I've added gas a million times, it seems, and never, ever, spilled gas onto the tank.

But, sure enough, this time, a teaspoon of petrol spilled across the tank as I brought the pump handle over the tank.

Damn! That's not good for the paint.

Gassed up and restarted, I headed towards home. No sense prolonging this experience.

Except, thinking about it, practice is actually what I needed.

A look at the Rickman Enfield from 1972

(Motacilla Photo/WikiMedia Commons)

 Maynard Hershon writes the "Back in the Day" section for Motorcycle Sports and Leisure magazine. The magazine has a rich archive of articles he can mine, dating back to 1962. 

As a reader, he first came across the original version of the magazine, as Motorcycle Sport, back in the 1970s. 

The magazine is published in the UK, but Hershon is American, and I sense that he shares my enjoyment for the oh-so-British perspective on motorcycles. 

Recently he sent me an item from a 1972 edition of the magazine, a review of the then new Rickman Metisse, powered by the Royal Enfield Series 2 750cc twin. 

Of course Hershon didn't write it. I don't know who did. There was no byline; British motor magazines had a tradition of anonymous articles, signed with pseudonyms, or initials, or not at all.

The Rickman Metisse reviewed in the magazine in 1972 is undeniably a collectible today, regardless of any flaws it may have possessed at the time. No one cares anymore how many miles per gallon it gets.

The anonymous writer's perspective and style are antiques as well, and just as priceless.

Maynard explains:

"The magazine was produced for lifetime motorcyclists, and for years the editors and writers were horrified by the new 'superbikes,' overweight, over-powered monsters. Eventually, the old magazine grew out of touch with the times and had to change, but handled the change well. I've been in there monthly since the mid-'90s."

Here's an example of what I call great writing, from the 1972 article by the anonymous author, on the Rickman Metisse. First comes the setup:

"The big Enfield engine's good looks have never, I feel, been properly appreciated. Surely it is one of the best-looking motorcycle engines ever produced. It is large, smoothly styled, yet not so 'bland' as to be boring, and with a weight and swell to the finning that give it an almost brutally powerful aspect... which must be a bonus in the looks of any motorcycle that does, in fact, happen to be an extremely powerful performer."

And then comes the kicker:

"Somehow this was never apparent when the engine was housed in the Royal Enfield frame."

Ha!

The Rickman frame doesn't escape unscathed either.

"Add the facts that the Rickman's seat is strictly average height from the ground, and the handlebar grips come rather far back, and you have all the ingredients for a thoroughly uncomfortable riding position for anyone except a motorbike-mad chimpanzee..."

And:

"Riding comfort is not particularly high, which can be blamed (if you think it is a blameworthy matter) on the firm suspension, and not particularly luxurious dualseat and the execrable riding position."

(So the ride is hard, but that's no discomfort, unless you happen to be seated on the motorcycle.)

The engine is "agricultural," and would be better with twin cams, the author reports. And then he writes that it "runs a little short of puff and flattens out at about 105. Still, who's grumbling..."

Who's grumbling! The author answers his own question by using ellipsis instead of a question mark there. Reader, are you so pedestrian as to think a mere 105 is satisfactory? Pity.

The whole article is a sly combination of pats on the back and jabs in the ribs.

And he never lets up, congratulating the Metisse for "no pandering here to effete pretty-pretty looks!"

The author makes it all seem effortless. No pandering here! Sure, the motorcycle is splendid, and well worth the money (insert ellipsis here) if you like that sort of thing.

Readers are left, really, to draw their own conclusions.

But, if they want to see a Metisse on their own, they are in luck, as the magazine posts not one, but TWO advertisements below the article for Elite Motors, sole suppliers of the Rickman, at Garratt Lane, Tooting Broadway, London.

That address, to American ears, must be the most Gilbert and Sullivan touch of all.

Sorry, Tooting is a real place (London's mayor lives in the district). The name is quite serious, and of ancient Anglo-Saxon origin.

No one knows for sure what it means, but it could be derived from an old meaning of the verb "to tout."

Adorable Royal Enfield needs a home

Give this cute motorcycle a home and he'll love you forever.

 This adorable advertisement for a still-new 2023 Royal Enfield Meteor 350 is guaranteed to warm your heart. Here it is, just as I found it, on CraigsList: 

URGENT: Red motorcycle seeks forever human before dealership staff becomes emotionally attached. 

Available for immediate adoption: a brand-new Royal Enfield Meteor 350 in Fireball Red. 

He’s been living comfortably indoors at Williams Vintage Cycle for far too long now. Staff members have started greeting him every morning. One technician may or may not have called him “buddy” last week. This situation cannot continue. 

About him:

Friendly and approachable.

Loves long rides and unnecessary detours.

Extremely photogenic.

Old soul trapped in a brand-new motorcycle body.

Smooth, relaxed personality with zero attitude problems.

Comes fully vetted with Royal Enfield’s factory three-year warranty and roadside assistance.

Adoption fee recently reduced — NOW $1,000 OFF MSRP.

Unlike some high-strung motorcycles, this Meteor 350 isn’t trying to impress anyone. He just wants a calm life filled with scenic roads, weekend rides, and somebody who appreciates classic style without needing 180 horsepower to buy groceries.

At night, after the showroom lights go out, he sits quietly in Fireball Red wondering why everyone keeps choosing Himalayans and Super Meteors instead.

You can change that.

Visit: Williams Vintage Cycle, 511 Home Ave., Xenia, Ohio 45385 or call 937-376-0424. Southwest Ohio’s premier Royal Enfield dealer, proudly helping riders find the perfect motorcycle for over 18 years.

Please adopt responsibly.