Fill Part -1 CBT Attempt 1

This is where I’d love to be able to inform my readers that I ran-away and just got a motorcycle licence and rode away in to the sun-set, with the occasional vague and warming recollection of learning to ride a motorcycle,

That wasn’t the case at all though,  and in the tradition of the now ‘wanked flat’ US comedy ‘How I Met Your Mother’ I’ll tell you it ended in me having a monumentally pathetic, but painful crash.

 February 2012 was bloody cold, supremely, unforgivingly bloody icy and snowy, doubly so when I was driving over to Peterborough on the morning of my CBT in my battered old Peugeot. I should add at this point that at the time I was studying for degree in something at Nottingham University but the plan was to drive home to Suffolk through Peterborough and pick up my CBT on the way (such a trifling matter I considered it) then quick blast down the A1 to tell my friends and family of my great feat of daring and gall farting about Peterborough scared fucking rigid of the beast of a Suzuki 125EN between my legs in the freezing cold.

I turned up at the CBT place, and sat in my car watching two blokes who clearly didn’t want to be there using shovels to break up the ice in the car-park and shovel it to a pile in one corner- this didn’t bode well.

The first bloke,  I’ll call him ‘Dick’ (because it IS funny)  waved me over

“Morning mate, I’m here for a CB…”
“Get in there and get kitted up, lot to cover today, you ridden before?”
“Erm…. I’ve had a go on a mates bike in a car park when I was 15”
“Great,  I’ll go and get you a bike out whilst you get kitted up.”

Ladies and gentlemen,  I won’t ‘call out’ this establishment, but Dick hadn’t filled me with the warmth and light I was expecting. I guess naïvely as my first attempt it’d be like being stuck in the ‘Home and Away’ theme song,  all warmth and loveliness with the sort of people who’d go to the ends of the world to make sure I left a reasonably competent motorcyclist ready to deal with all the demands of riding a motorcycle.

“Hold me in your arms and don’t let me go…”

(Or, the version I sing to my wife’s great alarm whilst she’s watching the aforementioned dose of antipodean escapism…. “I’ll do you up the bum and make you squeak…” it does fit rather nicely in the melody,  try it.)

The day only got worse really,  I’ll just use phrases to describe the rest of the day in the interests of brevity – The Greatest Hits of Dick if you will;

“Pretend that this mark on the ground is a junction, and that that line of ice represents the lane down the centre of the road….”

“If you can’t get figure-of-eights,  you probably shouldn’t be riding a bike”
 

Most worryingly in the back of my mind were;

“That bike does that sometimes,  if it does it on the road-ride just roll of the throttle, pull the clutch in then let it out again and it’ll usually restart”

“That neutral light is a bit funny, just ignore it”

There was also a bonus track, a rather heavy 12” Extended Remix of “Why everybody should vote UKIP” which was given to me as a radio test before venturing out on the road.

Needless to say, I went home £100 down after the road-ride was abandoned halfway through due to snow, and told to come back another day….

…Which I’ll tell you about next time.

Practice makes perfect.

It won’t have escaped the attention of many,  at the moment in the UK it’s what only what be described as “bloody cold.”  With my impending CBT I guessed it was time, for once, I prepared ahead of time for something.

 A few phone-calls to some friends,  “Do you think it’ll be cold on a bike at the moment?”

“Yes,  very cold.”

For those that haven’t dealt with Long-Jonh’s (or what you’re nan will call “thermals” to try and make the sound a bit less like some contraption from Anne Summers’,  to spare her blushes) they’re just like tights for men.  However they’re kind the exact opposite of tights,  as tights are normally sexy and look nice,  

Long-John’s don’t,  they’re very much the opposite.  Scratch what I said above.

I got on the internet and looked up some Long-John’s,   firstly I found that they generally come in three colours,  being beige,  shitty-green, or grey.  However in the world of 21^st century such descriptive terms would be like kryptonite to the marketing people.  The far more acceptable names of “Cream, Olive, and Charcoal” are employed,  suddenly in my mind they became more acceptable.  1-0 to the marketing men.

Then they turned up.  I was quite excited,  putting aside my Biochemistry text book that arrived at the same time. I tore open the packed and unfurled what looked like a Victorian temperance device,  in resplendent grey (Charcoal.) – I did feel a little bit curious.   

The words from a very wise motorcyclist I know echoed around my head “make sure you practice with them on.”  It suddenly made a whole of sense.

I stretched them on to my lower body, the sheer charcoal looking ever-more grey.  This was my first faux-pas in the world of wearing Long-John’s,  I couldn’t get them over my ankles,  I for about an hour guessed this is how they were mean t to me worn,  with the crotch somewhere around my knees.  Realising this couldn’t be right I pulled them up to wear them in their full glory, under my jeans.

Then of course,  it was time to have a piss. 

This is where the fun began,  where I regretted choosing grey,  and where these things absolutely confused the hell out of me.

Firstly,  not to put too fine a point on it, men,  any piss dribbles caused by not shaking the old chap enough before putting him away are deeply, and fully amplified by a sheer grey polyester stretched around that “region.”   Obviously it’s easy to tell the rookie Long-John wearer by the colour,  I’m not going to experiment but I can guess that cream or olive don’t show this effect.  Now I hear your next question, “why didn’t you use the flap?”

Well,  you see the thing is,  these ‘el cheapo, Chinese Long-John’s have two “piss flaps”,  and this is where the confusion began.   Essentially they leave me with two glorious options for self-determination when it comes to where I urinate.

Pissflap “1”,  this I imagine is the default pissflap, and allows me should I chose to urinate straight down my leg,  or would require the use of a few Yellow-Page’s to stand on, a lá the old Christmas advert to piss into an actual toilet.  It would have to be BLOODY COLD before I’d consider this,  or be stuck in a traffic jam – That said I wonder if it’s like a train where you can’t “flush in station.”

Pissflap “2”,  really not sure who this is aimed that,  however in my mind this would allow you to piss upwards,  allowing you to, should you ever feel the need, to piss on to your own face,  or at least piss all over your jacket.  Helmet-on-visor-down should you attempt this would be my advice – spare a mouthful of your own fetid piss.

Pissflap 1,  you've got no idea how long it took to make "Giant Panama Violets" look like "Giant Penis."

Pissflap 2, you can not understand the embarrassment of going in to a Londis and asking for "something I can turn in to a penis" either.....

I guess a mouthful of your own piss is favourable to a Panama Violet though,  they're going in the bin unless anybody wants them....

So, do I piss on shirt-or-shoes?

However, this is the age of the “third way” which of course I postulated with my piss soaked Long-John’s.  I’ll pull them down,   this however caused three other options:

1)     1) Snap the highly elasticated waist-band between scrotum and the penis,  which is slightly more comfortable then option 2,  however severely impedes flow, and I can imagine become frustrated with this when I “REALLY” need a piss.

2)      2)Ease the waist-band under the scrotum however this is moderately painful,  flow is better then option 1.  Laugh like an idiot to yourself at the bird-eye view you get of your own scrotum strangulated whilst you’re having a piss,  providing it’s not too painful.

3)     3) Pull the whole lot down, and stand there like a fucking three year old with the jean/boxer/Long-John combination around my ankles. 

(No pictures given for these....)

Joking aside however, I can vouch for the effectiveness of the Long-John’s,  firstly they give you a brilliant excuse to do an Errol Flynn-esque “Robin Hood” impression,  I live in Nottingham anyway...... ( I have a photo with sword, hat and everything, but I won't post it in the interests of my own dignity).

Or indeed they do keep you warm,  very warm and toasty. I have a thermal vest that matches too, but that's really worth any discussion, I can't really think of anything funny to write about that!  I do recommend them though, and seeing as the Long-John's and vest cost well under £10, and ignoring the stitching fault on mine (I think the middle "flap" has been stitched up in error...) I heartily recommend them.

Anyway, CBT day tomorrow,  and it looks like it's going to be ungodly fucking cold, I'll let you know how it goes!  Wish me luck!

Anyway, three cups of coffee from writing this,  time to go and practice.......

Tom Cruise and a Crotch Rocket........

The first line is always the most difficult to write I've always found.

Now that's out the way,  hopefully I've given myself the impetus to write something creative and hopefully amusing,  although for that no assurances are implied or inferred.

You see 'the thing'  that I'm on the long voyage to learning to ride a motorcycle,  when I say "leaning to ride" I guess at the moment that's a combination of two very important factors:

1) Learning to make a motorcycle move in the direction I want it to make it go (using the power of the engine,  this isn’t the Flintstones...)

2) Doing that whilst falling-off as little as possible, or otherwise making a complete and utter tit of myself.

I'd love to tell you I've done that,  but I'm not even that far.  I guess if this was some shitty 1990's American sitcom,  this is where we'd cue a dreamy flashback sequence.

**Shimmering chimes effect**

I've always wanted to ride a motorcycle, but like a lot of areas in my life I’ve “wanted” to do something,  but for want of a better term, I couldn’t be arsed with the ball-ache of actually acquiring the skills to do it;  I’ve had visions of myself just waking up one day with a motorcycle licence,  off I’d go down the road,  looking dead sexy with a crotch rocket between my legs,  I always saw aviator sunglasses too, a power-ballad in the background,  just the right amount of stubble on my face.....  Think ‘Top Gun’ here.

 Like juggling,  karate and ironing,  it was something I’d  learn to do one day for sure,  just not today.

Then a funny thing happen for some reason I ended up a university,  and the costs of limping around in my old Peugeot have become prohibitive, always looking for an excuse to turn adversity in to something good,  “I’ll get a motorbike”  I told my wonderfully supportive fiancée who humours me in the sweetest way a man could ever hope for,  “Yeah,  sounds like a good idea,  I fancy it too.

So here I am six weeks later, with a few stories to tell, and hopefully a few to tell in the future.  This is going to be my sideways glance at learning to ride a motorcycle,  I hope it helps and amuses a few people.