Licence to thrill

Getting a motorcycle licence is the ultimate challenge for an adventurer, as Daggi Gehm finds out…

“Cool!” say the youngsters, and high-five me. “Well, we already knew you had a screw loose…” say people of my own age, with a shake of the head. “Have you gone and fallen for one of these mad bikers?” asks a childhood friend. “Just one of them? No, all of them!” I respond defiantly.

If I’d only known what a stir my latest project would create! Now I have to live with being constantly asked “Well, have you got it yet?”. And they only mean one thing: my motorcycle licence, additional class A2.

The riding school next to the cemetery

Finding the riding school right next to the cemetery does not seem very encouraging. Well, I suppose it would at least save on transport costs when they take away my earthly remains… but luckily I didn’t give that pleasure to the most relentless riding instructor on the planet. Probably because of his warning refrain: “If you release the clutch too fast, you’ll land directly in the cemetery,” or alternatively: “If you end up on the other side of the road on a bend, they might as well just take you straight to the hospital.”

Yet before these verbal motivations, my first 45-minute double lesson started relatively calmly. I’m sitting on a Japanese bike with both feet still firmly on the ground and with an umbilical cord radio connection to instructor Wolfgang. First, I gently release the clutch. “Slowly, I said!” the instructor bellows in my ear. Oh my god, it’s fast! With tentative steps right and left, I can hardly keep up with the bike. I soon abandon all hope of managing it without touching the ground.

The speed of light: 28mph

Until – oh miracle! – something clicks in my head and thudding heart. I lift my feet off the ground and ride. For 30 metres! Happiness! The first hurdle has been overcome. I’m going to keep going, whatever the cost! If in doubt, lots of lessons.

And now I’m allowed to step on the gas a bit. The motorbike leaps forward. We’ve left the cemetery behind now. With immense concentration I manoeuvre the bike round the bends. I stall the engine at least 15 times; I haven’t got the hang of giving it the right amount of throttle yet. I’m afraid of taking off – at a maximum speed of 8mph in first gear. Luckily, the ‘Riding School’ sign on my leather jacket marks me out as a learner.

The next time, at 28mph, I achieve what feels like the speed of light! Wolfgang tells me off for looking so tense; he says people will think he’s mistreating me. My comments fade away unheard, because although the instructor can talk to me, I can’t talk back. I’ve now managed to cross one of Hamburg’s main six-lane highways for the first time, petrified that I’ll stall the engine right in the middle. But I only did that six times today, and not at a junction… phew!

Really great, super brave, fantastically fast?

Meanwhile, I am congratulating myself for being really great, super brave and, at 34mph, fantastically fast. The instructor hardly notices; he’s punishing me with impossible tasks, which apparently are the mark of the true connoisseur. In plain English: stop and start in the rider training area. Getting started, changing up, changing down, braking, putting my left leg down, twice in a row. Next, putting my right leg down twice. Tearing up and down the track 20 times. Then taking a tight bend.

And it happens, as it was bound to: the bike is on its side. It’s not going to be the last time. Braking on a bend with handlebars at right angles simply isn’t possible. I’m beginning to see why the front of a riding school machine is equipped with a stable frame. But how am I supposed to slalom round a row of traffic cones at walking pace without looking at them?

Out of ten attempts, I only manage to do it three times without knocking over a single cone. How I long just to be riding pillion again, leaning against the sissy bar, enjoying the landscape, fully relaxed, instead of constantly on the lookout like a hypnotised rabbit, focused on the tasks and the traffic up ahead.

“Keep going!” say the chapter members

Several times I just want to abandon my plan, throw everything away – and not just those wretched cones. But every time, the members of ‘my’ Breitenfelde Chapter bolster my resolve: “Keep going,” they beseech me. “Don’t give up!” This is the chapter that I went with, or rather rode with, crazy reporter that I was, through thick and thin for 2,086 miles from Shanghai to Beijing in China, and a few months after that from Rome to Hamburg Harley Days^® – together with my new Chinese H.O.G.^® friends. Riding pillion, Harley-hopping with the most diverse bikers – prudent senior citizens and young hotheads alike. At least as exciting was the ‘heavenly hell-ride’ with Alban Scheiber, who burned up the Timmelsjoch mountain pass with me – he had invited the biker group to the motorcycle museum in Top Mountain Cross Point, which he runs with his twin brother Attila.

And now the Breitenfelde Chapter, which I would definitely like to join, is motivating me. To ride and party with its unpretentious members, as I did in June for their 25th anniversary celebrations. To wear the leather vest with the Harley eagle and the chapter name on my back, and my own name on the front.

Respect for these cool ‘Easy Riders’

I would like to dive even deeper into the mad world of H.O.G., to be part of this global family, connected by an invisible network that wonderfully links every member from Tokyo to Toronto. And last but not least, I want to ride a Harley^®! To have unbridled fun, to start a new, endless adventure that I’ll rediscover on every new trip. Born to be wild – while remaining ladylike!

Now that I know the basics that you have to master as a biker, I have nothing but respect for the achievements of the H.O.G. members, who wended their way for thousands of miles through China or Italy’s seething traffic. Hats off to them! And how laid-back they are, sitting on their bikes, Easy Riders all of them (whereas I look more as though I’m clinging on for dear life).

And then, a sudden shock at the end of October: Wolfgang says that he puts his bike away over the winter. The dream of becoming one of the Ladies of Harley^® fades into the distance. I use the time to attend the four optional theory lessons, and watch instruction videos online. In April I’m finally able to get back to practical lessons.

Oh horror – the examiner is a woman!

Sometime in June I hear the magic words “I think you’re ready”. Wolfgang is putting me in for the practical test. I have to master four specific manoeuvres: traffic cone slalom at walking pace, emergency braking at 30mph, swerving manoeuvre, also at 30mph, with and without braking.

But oh horror – the examiner is a woman! No hope of fluttering my eyelashes… first off she asks me for a few details. Where the cooling water is, for instance. I haven’t the foggiest idea. I ask her whether I should just pack and go home now. “No,” she says, and sighs as deeply as if I’m the living embodiment of all biker failings in this world. So I go to the starting point, and turn my head almost 270 degrees at every one of the at least one hundred side streets joining the test route. I wait for hours at ‘STOP’ signs and indicate decorously before every bicycle that I overtake. And I only knock over a single cone when I’m doing the slalom at walking pace. And, finally, I am allowed to exchange my scruffy old licence for a shiny plastic one. Bye bye, youthful photo!

Hey, I’m riding a Harley!

What have I learned? Well, riding a motorbike, obviously. But also to avoid mistakes when driving a car, which have gradually crept in over the years. I’m much more careful around other bikers now, because I understand how much space they need. Of course, this is because I’m one of them now.

Björn Andersson, Dealer Principal of the Breitenfelde dealership, strongly advised me to get a Harley-Davidson Street^® 750. Because weighing 53kg myself, and being only 5’2” tall, I don’t have much to pit against a heavier model, and so can hold the lightest of all Harleys (231kg with a full tank) better. And the Street is also perfect for novices, says my trusted dealer – it’s light to handle and flexible to manoeuvre. And because I’m female, there’s another unbeatable argument in favour: the Street looks great! Just like Thor, the kind Harley rider who takes pity on me, and offers to accompany me on a short test ride. A good omen!

Maximum tilt – painful!

A few days later, Chapter members Frank and Ramona Grell sandwich me between them and we take a trip on the relatively quiet roads in the Duchy of Lauenburg, which includes a bumpy cobbled street and swerving to avoid a fully laden hay wagon. Bikers coming towards us greet us with thumbs up. I greet them in return, full of aplomb. In my head a firework of feelings is exploding: I’m one of them now! “Hey, people, I’M RIDING A MOTORBIKE! A HARLEY, EVEN! AND IT’S FANTASTIC FUN!” I’m so proud when I roll back into the dealer’s yard that I demonstrate the maximum tilt before the eyes of numerous old hands. Painful!

The third time I go out, Björn himself accompanies me, just to be on the safe side. He rides far out in front and then he waits patiently for his Street and its rider, who won’t be left behind, on the black Street 750, which perhaps in the not-too-distant future might belong to her. So that she can experience her ultimate adventure, with everything that goes with it: wind and sunshine, sometimes rain; roaring exhausts; the feeling of freedom; the team spirit of H.O.G.; eagles on the leather jacket. Eagles all around her for her first ride with the chapter… ready for take off!

 

Text and pictures: Daggi Gehm