The Herald - The Herald Magazine
I shook my head ruefully . . . I might have uttered a bad word
MANY miles have been ridden and many (mostly positive) criticisms delivered. There’s barely an inch of A and B-road south of Glasgow that hasn’t been covered by the Michelin Pilot tyres of my Suzuki SV650S since April in order to attain the ability to ride my motorcycle in a manner that doesn’t make me want to poop my breeks.
After 11 runs, the sheets that the observers complete at the end of each session (usually after devouring fast food) were populated not with the number 3 – meaning a specific aspect of riding requires development – but with the number 1, meaning commended.
Once you’ve got to that point you’re finessing your skills, not making huge leaps in proficiency. You might not feel it, but you’re better. Much better.
Said sheets conclude with the observer’s notes and things you need to work on. At the end of run 11, my observer Iain wrote: “Sean is ready for his test this weekend. Great, safe, smooth run tonight.”
Come last Saturday morning I felt good – confident in my abilities and happy to show the examiner what I’ve learned. Even though the run would take me along unfamiliar roads and through towns I’d never visited, I wasn’t concerned. I’d slept well.
I’d washed the bike, topped up the oil, checked the tyre pressures and swotted up on the Highway Code.
I arrived at Bothwell Services in plenty of time and under blue skies.
I bought a coffee and waited for the examiner, George, to rock up. Ready? Absolutely.
Soon after we got started I made a couple of very minor boo-boos on the M74 south but put them to the back of my mind. We turned off and headed towards the Clyde Valley, in search of trad jazz giants the Stompers (not really). All good at this point. Soon, though, we were on a B-road and I had no clue what the speed limit was – a distinctly unadvanced position to be in. I kept it at 40mph despite being more or less sure the limit was 60mph, and upon seeing 40mph signs on the edge of the next town shook my head ruefully. I might have uttered a bad word.
Hey ho. No harm done. On we pootled, my nerves creeping unstoppably upwards. Arriving at a T-junction with a 50mph dual carriageway and seeing an appropriate gap for progress, I advanced on to the road and got up to speed, only to see George disappearing in my mirrors, having stopped at the junction. My first thought: I’VE MISSED A STOP SIGN. I’VE BROKEN THE HIGHWAY CODE. AUTOMATIC FAIL.
After pulling in and waiting for George we got back on the gas and completed the hour-long run, my spirits lower than Donald Trump’s idea of the appropriate standards for presidential behaviour. Nobody died – I’d simply have to do another, better, run – but I couldn’t help but feel I’d not done myself justice. And I’d been so well prepared. What a tool.
Stopping at a service station, I went to buy coffees while George completed his test summary in the car park. I came outside, put the cups on the ground, sighed heavily and said, “Well, that was s***.”
He offered a hand. “Congratulations! You passed.”