Ok,

I'll delurk here and tell you my story of my very first motorbike.

I was sniffing through the local papers like a bloodhound searching for clues. Any sign of a decent and affordable bike and I'd give them a ring. After searching for what seemed like days, I finally struck gold. It didn't hit me at first, but I realised that if I wanted to bag this one, I'd have to be smarter than the average detective. After sniffing out the "For Sale" portion of the motorbike classifieds, and having no luck, I found my success in the "Swap" section of the same paper.

"Hello, I was wondering if the bike you advertised for swapping in the paper was still available."

There was no immediate reply - that made my anxiety grow as I couldn't stand the rejection of finding out that someone else had beat me to the spot. Then came the response, like a ship over the horizon:

"Yes, I still have the bike available. What vehicle do you have in mind to swap it with?"

My heart skipped a beat, the phone almost slipped out my hand as my palms grew sweaty. I couldn't get my answers and questions out fast enough for fear of someone else ringing up and getting the bike. I wondered if he had subscribed to Call Waiting and if it was possible that someone else could still slip in. I gathered my thoughts and calmly responded:

"I have a 1977 Mini. What about the bike - can you tell me more about it."

I had to move the focus from my clapped out machine to the perceived elustrious "Gold Wing" of my budget. I needed desparately to hear that, after all these days of searching in vain, I could have my very own first bike under my legs in a matter of hours.

"The bike is a Yamaha XS250. The S is for sport as its a sports bike. It's in good condition and I'm looking for about $1,500 for it."

I kept my calm as I knew that I'd be riding like Mick in no time. All I had to do was go over and convince him that he really wanted my Mini and I wouldn't mind taking that bike off him. In my mind, I knew that I had to have that bike no matter what the price. When the testerone pumps, the brains shrink.

I drive to the guy's house in Kenwick, about 30 km's from my house, in my mini. I got nervous as I was trailed by a police car for about one km and my mini, not used to long trips, was starting to leave a trail of white smoke from the exhaust. "Damn", I thought, "That Winn's No Smoke didn't quite work." referring to the 10 bucks I spent pouring a magic liquid in my engine to stop it blowing smoke. Fortunately, like the commander of a submarine with a Destroyer Ship floating past at the surface above, the police car overtook me and drove out of sight.

I arrived at the guys house. He took my mini for a spin and after complaining of the white smoke, eventually settled for a (retrospecitvely) handsome sum and we proceeded to swap our wares. I thank him for his effort and he warns me to keep the revs up as it could do with a service to clean the carbs and tank. I said I'd take care of it and as I took off down the road I watched to make sure the 'P' plates I affixed stayed on.

After about 100m, I came to my first set of lights. As is always the case, they were a slight shade of the wrong colour. Like I remembered in practice for getting my licence, all I needed to do was slowly apply the front brake and when I had slowed to walking pace, remove the front brake and apply the rear brake to obtain maximum stability.

I slowly changed down the gears whilst ever so slightly applying the front brakes. In the process of slowing down - slowly, a car could be seen approaching from behind. At this time I was at walking pace and remembering my rider learning days, I removed the front brake and applied the rear brake to bring the vehicle to a stop.

These last few seconds were the most dramatic. I pulled off a perfect stop, even remembering to avoid the centre of the road where the oil deposits add up to be reminiscent of Exxon Valdez. Then it hit me. I had stopped the vehicle, but there is no in-built mechanism to keep this stationary bike pointing in the upward direction. I FORGOT TO PUT MY FOOT DOWN. Like a firing pin in a rifle, my left foot shot out and headed for the tarmac. By this time the bike was slowly falling to the left, as most bikes will do if not held up when stationary. My foot stamped the ground hard and stuck firmly in it's place. But alas, the bike kept falling over, and getting heavier and heavier all the time. Later, I found out that this bike (XS 250) has a nickname of excess 250, the excess being in the weight department.

I toppled over within the full view of the car behind me and the left exhaust tube from the twin exhausts sizzled my leg like a sausage on a BBQ. The damn bike was so heavy I couldn't lift it off by myself. The driver from the car behind got out and helped it off me and consoled me that he himself had fallen off like that before. That piece of consolation at least provided relief to my ear, but not to my leg which was looking more like a swimming pool of puss than it had been a few moments before.

I picked myself up now that the bike was off, hopped back on and tried to start it. Damn bike wouldn't start. Remembering that I'd been instructed to "keep the revs up" mean't that I'd have to push start the beast. Once again, my feeble muscles were no match for the excess 250 and the (my now hero) considerate cage driver helped to push start my bike to get me home.

We'll I got home eventually - but in a Taxi because the bike conked out again down the road and I left it overnight at an undertakers business residence along Albany Highway. Good place to leave my bike and may it rest in peace.

And that, my friends, is my entry for the DBOOCS award.

Rik (who has since owned and loved a 1995 ZX6R Kawa and currently rides a Suzuki GSX 100cc in Malaysia with a million other "moped" riders).

--

Richard Larkin