The Beginning of my Biker Life

The man hunched over his motorcycle can focus only on the present instant of his flight; he is caught in a fragment of time cut off from both the past and the future; he is wrenched from the continuity of time...in other words, he is in a state of ecstasy; in that state he is unaware of his age, his wife, his children, his worries, and so he has no fear, because the source of fear is in the future, and a person freed of the future has nothing to fear.’ Slowness, Milan Kundera, 1995.

Since 1976, I have owned 20 motorcycles.
The very first one I bought for myself was a Suzuki 50cc, green as the off-road competition Kawasakis. On the day I got it, I rode about 45 miles non-stop – around my family home's block! Sometimes clockwise, then counter-clockwise, I think I drove the neighbors crazy with that annoying bee-like exhaust…
I rode in it to the transit department to take my driving test. Oh, the bald face of youth… to drive unlicensed to the police department!
That was a memorable day. In the center of the course there was a flat plateau, sided by an ascending and a descending ramp. You had to stop in the middle of the ascending ramp, rest your left foot on the ramp, and then proceed upwards to the plateau. The moment my front tire was on the plateau, my engine stopped! Thanks to my many neighbor-annoying miles practice, I was quick to pull the clutch lever, release it fast and have the engine running again – without putting my foot on the ground, which would have cost me my approval. One more stop on top of the plateau, and that was that.
The chief examiner for motorcycles licenses back then was a guy called Abdalla. He was famous among the bikers of São Paulo, and rode a Honda 750K, the rounded fuel tank version that was the object of desire of my whole generation. A large number of bikers – mostly well-off 'playboys', the sons of the wealthy families that could afford big motorcycles – used to swarm around him, showing their bikes and "expertise" off. Apple-polishers, if you wish.
The ramp was at the center of the course, a large court-like rectangle, and he would stand at one of the shorter sides, overseeing the action. Too far to notice one engine suddenly silencing, lucky me! Well, after all candidates had finished the course, Abdalla would read out loud the names of those who were NOT approved. My name was not mentioned… enormous relief! It was then that the second unforgettable incident took place. In a silly attempt to impress his buddies – and the many little idiots like me, I guess – this grown-up, supposedly mature "chief-examiner" started his Honda, and rode slowly through the exam court, while all his 'apple-polishers' started following him. Abdalla then jumped his feet on the byke's seat, and stood straight up, with his arms outstretched. Really Barnum Brothers style. And then shame fell upon him! He fell from the bike like a potato sack! The Honda continued to roll until its front tire hit the curb, the rear tire went up a few inches, and then tumbled. So much for self-inflicted humiliation, a befitting punishment for the utterly bad example to the newly approved motorcyclists…
The third memorable event happened when I was living the parking lot.
I was excited for having been approved, and hit the side of a Volkswagen Beetle that appeared "out of nowhere" (b.s., I was not paying attention enough). After sliding sideward (I would have other falls later, due to braking the rear tire heavier than the front wheel), so my foot was pressed between the bike and the Beetle. The car driver was more concerned with me than with his car, and let me go after I assured him I was OK.
Many riding lessons were ahead of me. And nineteen more bikes, at increasing engine capacities and all styles: street, off-road, custom, the bigger of all a Suzuki 800 Intruder, with a power axle transmission. Sweet… And accidents. But well, I am here to tell the story, which means I survived.
I will tell other good stories about my riding exploits later…