Born to be Mild?

And so I've made my first foray and dipped my leather-shod toes into the motorcycling world proper. My little battle-scarred Yamaha was delivered to me under cover of darkness by a decidedly official and somewhat stereotypical heavily Essex accented, moustached, tattoo bedecked, bald, colossally tall but enthusiastically friendly biker delivery chap called Richard.

No-one could fit me in for a CBT over the Bank Holiday weekend, and the Girls Angel school is booked up days in advance, so I have spent the majority of the past week sat on the bike in my back garden starting it up and making the little single pot engine brum and sing for me before reluctantly switching it off and rather unceremoniously practising heaving it on and off the centre stand.

To make up for my lack of learner entitlement certificate I fulfilled my two-wheeled lust by going to purchase the rest of my gear. I began with a helmet, or 'lid' as my biker friends keeping telling me is the correct nomenclature. After getting over my initial sniggering upon the proclamation 'Sir, I need a shiny helmet!' upon entering the bike gear emporium, the seemingly erudite and rather good looking Kiwi sales chap spouted forth about the baffling array of multi-coloured headgear.

I have always been told to spend as much as you can possibly afford on a crash helmet, so decided against the £50 selection. I think this was a wise decision; as the sales chap gave me a quick practical lesson in cheaper plastic helmets. Although they meet the same basic safety requirements as the more expensive choices, they use far more materials to do so.

On the sales chaps' recommendation, I tried the plastic based helmet and felt as though my swan-like neck would shear clean off my shoulders with the merest hint of movement, there was so much weight. As there's not too much substance in this head of mine to begin with, the extra poundage felt extreme, this weight would certainly take a lot of time to get used to by which point I'd end up with a neck like an F1 driver, nay too fetching on a nubile young lady.

I swapped for the more expensive fibreglass composed model and noted the significant difference immediately, there was less pressure on my neck and the weight was a lot more bearable for my noggin. After too-ing and fro-ing between the various fibreglass models I opted for the aggressively named Suomy Gunfighter in a sparkly silver combo, as my choice of Belisha Beacon yellow was not available, I had been hankering for the luminous orange of the Roof Diversion helmet but this was ever so slightly too pricey for my rapidly emptying bank account, particularly as I had boots and gloves to procure.

It was then onto my local Hein Gerike store where I was intercepted by yet another erudite friendly Kiwi sales chap, who steered me to some reasonably comfy waterproof boots that fitted the bill nicely. Again I was dumbfounded by the vast selection to choose from and in the end came away with some Bulson Peak boots which boasts a reinforced steel shaft (again more sniggering ensued) which prevents your foot from bending the wrong way in the event of an impact, my boots also have protection at the ankle bone and shin, the latter was tested at length with my old hockey stick in my garden later that evening. I selected some suitably luscious smelling gloves with a reinforced palm, since if I do come off I'm most likely to put my hands out to break my fall, something both Kiwi sales chaps brought to my attention.

So now I’m kitted out. There is so much for me to learn and master. The common assumption is ‘well I can drive a car’, but how wrong I was to even ponder that fact. My impatience got the better of me and after drilling my number plate and affixing L plates - something I haven't sported on a vehicle for over 10 years; I took the bike to a small quiet private road this evening to practice slow starts, stopping and clutch control and promptly planted the both of us into an understanding neighbours’ fence. An important lesson I think.

I'm astounded that, and forgive me as I'm not that old just yet, but the youngsters or hood-rats as I tend to call them, on their whining scooters and baby race replicas just expecting to hop on and away they go, don't see what's coming, I’m surprised they manage to make it much past CBT day.

Up until now I've been preoccupied with getting my CBT done in the day, which is pretty reasonable, but if I have the slightest hesitation or falter I will not think twice about going back for more practice under the watchful eye of an expert.

T minus 1 day to go.

The washing line and laundry isn't deemed essential

to a successful motorcycling career