With the unmistakable scraping sound of metal on concrete, I was reminded that I was not very good at this and was quite a moron for trying to slow down in the middle of a turn. Additionally, the pain coming from my previously damaged shoulder was not a very good sign, especially since that arm wasn’t really moving right. All in all, this was not a very good start to my Saturday.

About a month before this, there was another Saturday that went much better. I told the girlfriend about the bike as a kind of early anniversary surprise. There was happy crying, a good dinner, and clichés all around. Great times.

A couple weeks later, the bike arrived on a flatbed from Wisconsin. For a bike that was supposedly “clean as hell” (quoting the previous owner), it was rather beat up. The front tire was cracking from age, not use. The rear fairing had some cracks in it from meeting the pavement a few too many times. The front fairing had its own crack from killing a deer the hard way. Hell, my friend who sent it to me decided to strap one of the helmets he was giving me to the rear of the bike. That helmet was now shattered on the inside, making it worthless. But who am I kidding? I was excited as hell. I had a bike. There were even some helmets, a couple of jackets, a pair of boots, and a rear stand with it. The guy delivering it seemed rather concerned by my optimism, but he delivered it anyways and gave me a crash course on how to turn the thing on.

Now I just had the minor task of learning how to ride. After asking around my favorite Internet hangouts, I signed up for a Motorcycle Safety Foundation (MSF). This course consisted of two classroom sections in the mornings of Saturday and Sunday, with riding in the afternoon. Being in early September in Texas, it should have been sweltering hot when we rode.

But the weather in Texas is as predictable as my ex-girlfriend’s mood. So a cold front came in right before the class started. It was in the 60º’s and rainy when we were starting out. The instructor, a small blonde woman with the temperament of a bulldog raised by R. Lee Ermey, barked out instructions to the whole class, a mixture of hipsters, older dual-sport guys, and some of us who were total newbies. The bike I was on, a little 125cc cruiser, absolutely hated the cold. The choke was needed just to keep the thing alive, which lead to the power not falling off like it was supposed to. So during slow maneuvers (aka, most of the MSF course), the damn bike would alternate between not giving enough power and giving me too much.

So to set the scene, I’m wet and freezing, on a bike that doesn’t do what I want it to, with an instructor that I doubt would have been sympathetic even if I were on fire. I enter a corner a bit too fast and try to slow down in the middle of it by grabbing the front brake. The bike instantly dives to the left, front suspension collapsing under the sudden shift in weight. I try to hold onto the handlebars and stabilize the bike, but all that does is pull my already weakened shoulder out of its socket. The bike and I hit the ground in the middle of the damp parking lot with a thud of indignation.

At this point, I probably should give a brief history of my shoulder injuries. About 5 years before this, I tried to snowboard. I say “tried” because I did it one day and sucked so badly I went directly back to skis. After having my shoulder fall out of my socket repeatedly, I had my first shoulder surgery to correct it. A year later, I had the brilliant idea to use a furniture-moving dolly as a skateboard. That led to a second surgery about a year later. That second surgery wasn’t sticking so my shoulder was falling out of its socket at the very mention of a light breeze. A third surgery was planned for my winter break of this year to fix this.

So when my shoulder fell out of its socket, this was nothing new. The pain would come, but the first thing that hits is the feeling of helplessness. My right arm no longer responds how it’s supposed to and just dangles loosely at my side. There’s always that thought in the back of your mind that maybe you won’t be able to get it back in socket and then click. It’s in, but now the pain shoots up into a dull ache reaching from your neck to tendrils down your fingers.

The instructor came over and helped me get the bike up and took me aside for a moment. “Are you okay? No you don’t owe anything. Fill out this form. Don’t do it again or you’re out.” I’m off the bike for a bit as I fill out some paperwork as I describe what idiocy I did. The bike is a bit rough for wear, but it’s seen far worse before I ever threw a leg over it.

So I get back on the bike, a bit sore and determined to not screw up again. I make it through the rest of the day and the next day I do much better. I end up barely passing the final test, but I do pass. The written test is no big deal, so by Monday afternoon I have a little slip of paper in my wallet saying I can ride motorcycles. Let’s put that to the test.

