Zen and the Art of Falling Off Motorcycles – Tiggy’s Bike Test

You know how sometimes you get a good idea but halfway through doing it, it doesn’t seem like such a good idea any more? Well, I decided to take my motorcycle test. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

I used to be a biker babe when I was a teenager and able to fit into skin-tight leather pants. I rode everywhere on my bike and together we had lots of high-speed adventures and horrific accidents. Happy days. But after digging the bike out the snow one winter’s evening, I decided to sell the damn thing and buy a nice warm car instead.

So there I was at the training centre the other night, shivering with nerves and squeezed into my old leathers (they must have shrunk over the years). Of course I was saddled with the biggest, heaviest bike the instructor could find. Me and the bike got acquainted in no time. By that I mean I ended up lying in the gutter with the bike wedged on top of me. I was just testing the weight of the machine, obviously. It had been a while since I’d ridden.

After wobbling up and down the street on the hideous metal beast for hours, the instructor waved me on to the assault course, complete with sharp turns, gravel and pot holes.

There must have been something wrong with my bike as it refused to go around corners. Bright orange traffic cones jumped in front of the wheels like they were on a suicide mission. They should build one of these torture courses at Gitmo Bay – send a few prisoners around that on rusty Honda 125 and they’d be howling their confessions in no time.

Of course my fellow trainees were all burly men who whizzed around the course like Evil Knenivel on a Vespa. I chugged behind them all, a stream of curse words and sobs echoing around my fogged-up helmet. The only way I could avoid coming last in class was if Steven Hawking joined the course.

As the rain started to pour I realized this idea was not my best one.

But by some miracle I passed the course! The miracle coming in the shape of the bottle of whisky I gave the instructor just before the test. Ha! Works every time. How do you think I got through school?

Now to decide on a new bike.

What I can afford is this:

I can see the benefits – fuel efficient, space for several friends and handy for trips to the shops or lumber yard. But I’d look like a twat.

What I really want is something like this:

Sports bikes are sexy, sleek and totally impractical. Not sure where I’d put the shopping, but I could solve that by only buying really small things and putting them in my helmet, like sliced cheese.

Now everybody seems to think this is the ultimate bike:

But there’s no way I’d ride one of those metal monsters. A Harley is about the same weight as a shipping container. If one fell on me I’d have to stay under it forever.

And as a Harley-owning biker chick, it is compulsory to wear the following attire, as this young lady demonstrates:

I can see the benefits of a thong ‘n’ chaps combination on those hot and sticky days, but what about winter riding? One sharp frost and I could hire my bum out as a ski hill.

I need a machine that is safe, practical, and suits the level of my motorcycling skills. I think I’ve found my new bike.

Chaps and thongs are mandatory over at Humor-Blogs.com.