The MSF Basic RiderCourse: Day two

After a good night's sleep, we reconvene Saturday morning in Marysville, Ohio, and our class of 12 heads out to the tarmac to become familiar with the real machines. I hunt for a cruiser bike, since that's what I ride the most, and hop aboard a Yamaha Virago 250.

By MSF design, our instructors slowly ease us into two-wheeled locomotion. We first simply sit on the bikes to get a feel for their weight and where everything is -- reaffirming what we talked about the night before.

Then we get off and push the bike down the course. Something I unfortunately have a bit too much experience doing. Thankfully, these are little quarter-liter machines.

Next, we take turns pushing our neighbors on their bikes. The idea here is to balance the bike without the engine running, and to get a feel for how the brakes work. While doing this, our riding posture and ease of operation are studied by the instructors. Members of the class quickly discover that different style bikes have profoundly different handling characteristics. Each small step brings us closer to that magic moment when internal combustion and pistons will do all the hard work -- and my aching feet get a rest.

It's finally time to fire up the engines. Again, everything is done to plan. Steps are taken to make sure everyone is comfortable and on the same page.

We start by going over the many acronyms we discussed in class yesterday.

"To start the bike," Sweet says, "remember 'FINE-C'." Which stands for Fuel, Ignition, Neutral, Engine cut-off switch, Choke and Clutch.

"Um, if I can't find the fuel switch, should I consult M.O.M.," (For the uninitiated, that's Motorcycle Owners Manual). This particular model, I found out, doesn't have the usual tank-mounted petcock.

For many, today is the first time they have ever started a motorcycle. Thumbing the starter switch instantly transports me back some 25 years and my first experience with powered locomotion -- it's instant power, freedom, and exhilaration. I can imagine what others in the class are feeling. Looking around, I see big smiles spreading across the faces of my many classmates.

Then we get a feel for where the clutch begins to grab, and how to use the brake and clutch together. Basically, we just ride a straight line down the course and back. Again, small steps till everyone is comfortable, then we move on.

The course is now set up with little orange cones creating a large rectangle -- our intro into leaning. Cook takes a lap to show us how it's done, then we mount up. It's fortunate that we are in a rather large parking lot, since some of the new riders go wide utilizing every inch of it.

"Slow, look, lean and roll," Sweet yells, referring to the steps in making a turn. "Look ahead, look where you want to go."

As we ride around, I discover a bad habit I somehow picked up. I'm watching the rider in front of me when I should be looking past him. Well, that's one demon down.

The little orange cones now get set up into a slalom pattern. At first it takes only a minor deviation to run down the line of cones. After a few laps, the instructors move the cones wider apart, forcing more drastic course changes.

"Press right, go right, press left, go left," Sweet says.

It may seem counter-intuitive, but to change course quickly, you need to push the handlebar in the direction you want to go. There are a whole set of physical and mechanical laws in effect here, but the fact is -- it simply works.

The instructors now set up the cones into a long narrow rectangle. Our mission, bring the bike to a stop as quickly and safely as possible within the rectangle.

No sweat. As I enter the stopping area, the rear tire goes screech.

Oops.

Cook says, "We're doing rear wheel lockup later. Go around, do it again."

I know 70 percent of my stopping power is in the front wheel. It's just that my right boot needs to be re-taught that. Definitely one of my demons.

I go around. This time I use more front brake, less foot. It's better, but I know I'm not optimizing my stopping ability. More practice is needed. This is just one of those silly little skills that will probably save my life one day.

Then they set up the course for multiple exercises: weaving through the cones, navigating tight turns and making decreasing radius turns that spiral in like a conch shell.

Looking around the course, I notice the little orange cones are being thrashed relentlessly. Many of my classmates fixate on the little things and, of course, whack right into them.

Cook notices this target-fixation and trots out a scheme to get people to stop staring.

"Here," he says, handing each student one of the 3-inch cones, "take these home with you. Have dinner with it. Don't let it out of your sight. Put it on your nightstand when you go to bed, and make it the first thing you see when you wake up. That way, tomorrow, you'll never want to see the thing again."

So we retire for the day, cones in hands, thinking about tomorrow's big test day.

On the ride home, the lessons learned earlier are already making the ride more enjoyable. Real-world scenarios become part of the exercises. Manhole covers become cones to miss -- swerve right, press right, go right.

Next: Day three