Not-So-Easy Rider

You’re making a mental checklist of the benefits to your latest romantic breakup. Plenty of hot water in the morning. No disapproving looks when you wear black shoes with navy blue slacks.

Ah . . . and no objections to the motorcycle fantasies.

For years, you’ve done it in secret--gone into those leather stores on Melrose and tried on the jacket. The black one with the diagonal zipper and the buckle at the bottom. You look absurd--like a ballerina in a football uniform. Your persona projects Honda Civic, not Harley-Davidson.

But--without getting into any psychoanalysis here--that’s exactly why you want to ride a motorcycle.

Deep down, you have rediscovered a remnant of the rebellious teenager you tried to be, briefly, between band practice and National Honor Society meetings. That part of you still wants to straddle a motorcycle and navigate the curves of Mulholland Highway.

“You’re buying a motorcycle?” your friends ask. They use a tone that, in this particular crowd, usually is reserved for accusations of poor cinematic taste. (“You saw the third “Mighty Ducks” movie?”)

Of course not, you tell them. You haven’t even saved up to buy a motorcycle. Not yet. You’ve known too many people who drop big bucks on, say, a home darkroom only to discover that they can’t focus a camera. What you’re shopping for is a motorcycle guru, someone to help you determine if your brain lacks that critical motorcycling lobe. It also helps if your guru has all the necessary equipment: helmet, gloves and a small enough bike to learn on.

As luck would have it, you find just such a person. Saturday morning you arrive at his house for your first lesson: stopping. The helmet on your head is as wide as your shoulders, and your long morning shadow reminds you of something out of “The X-Files.” Skull protected, you roll down an Encino residential street at, oh, maybe 7 mph and squeeze the hand brake until you come to a gentle stop. Not exactly “Easy Rider,” but you seem to be pretty good at stopping. You are encouraged.

During the second lesson--when your guru turns on the engine--things get complicated. Everything is backward. You pull in the clutch with your hand and shift gears with your foot. You accelerate with the same hand you brake with. Nothing about it seems remotely instinctive.

In an empty parking lot, you attempt to run through the sequence required to make the bike go: brake in (right hand), clutch in (left hand), gear shift down (left foot), break out (right hand), throttle rotated (right hand), clutch out--slowly (left hand). Progressing through the steps on the motorcycle is akin to patting your head and rubbing your stomach--while also tapping your foot.

You stall. Kick start. And stall again.

You seem to have a problem remembering to release the brake as you let out the clutch, which reminds you of how you stalled during your driver’s test by forgetting to release the parking brake.

Your friends start in with jokes. “They issue organ donor cards with motorcycle licenses, right?” says one. Very funny. Not so funny are the long silences that sometimes follow your bragging about successful laps around the parking lot. “I had a family tragedy involving a motorcycle,” says one co-worker. You not so deftly change the subject. A close friend sighs and says, “Just tell me you’re wearing a helmet.” You mention none of these lessons to your mother.

Still, you’re getting drawn into this subculture. You realize this as you’re writing a check for boots--black leather numbers with square reinforced toes and big metal rings on the sides. You buy boot-cut jeans to wear with them. The ensemble may not suit you, but who cares? It feels good.

Your third lesson starts with more parking lot laps, this time at Calabasas High School. You practice using the turn signals. You shift all the way into third gear. You remember to pull in the clutch when you stop and, most of the time, you remember to let go of the brake when you start.

You’re ready, sayeth your motorcycle guru.

With him following in a car, you guide the motorcycle out onto Mulholland Highway. One of the most scenic stretches of road that Southern California has to offer spreads out before you, then completely envelops you. You wind through Malibu Creek State Park, feeling for the first time at one with the road. Deep in your gut you feel the allure of speed. You’re flying. You must be going . . . 35 mph.

Ducatis and Suzukis roaring around you, you finally reach the Rock Store, one of the most famous motorcycle hangouts on the planet. You might be embarrassed by your boots, which look a little too new, or the fact that you scooted in on the smallest bike in the parking lot by at least 400 CCs. But you aren’t. You’re too caught up gazing at the polished chrome, the custom paint, the array of riders.

You can feel it. You’ve been indoctrinated. Next you will have to buy a helmet. And gloves. And then your very own motorcycle.

And then, you can justify the jacket.