Bikes that made me: I did it all wrong with my first motorcycle

Answer: I wasn't, because I was 22. Also, I was a U.S. Marine infantryman returning from a six-month training deployment in Okinawa with money to burn. So, naturally, I decided to set fire to all of it with this Yamaha.

I'd spent years thumbing through Motorcyclist and Cycle World, ogling bikes and dreaming of the day I'd finally have my own. With just north of 90 horsepower on tap, this FZR was where dreams finally became reality for me. There were carbs and chokes and a fuel petcock, oh my. Because life's better (and better for you) when stuff's really #@&*ing difficult, right? Yeah, I was a man with something to prove (read: insecure). I've looked back on my younger self many times and thought, "What kind of jackass decides a crotch rocket is an appropriate first bike?"

Um, this guy. To be fair, there were lots of us back then who thought overdoing things meant doing them just right. Maybe you've been there too. I've managed to temper my stupid since those days, but I can still remember where it usually leads.

For example, I may know from experience how to have an embarrassing low side at walking pace (hypothetically). Let's say you forget that you switched the fuel petcock off. As you're leaving work like a boss, in front of friends you're trying to impress, those hypothetical carbs will run dry just as you're executing a left turn from a stop sign. And your fairings will have (more) scratches.

Ah, but that inline-four siren song. How it stirred the loins. There may have been a moment when I realized all the fiberglass wadding in my Vance & Hines slip-on was gone. This may have been about the time I discovered I like to wear earplugs while riding. Sounds fast, is fast. Duh. Which makes me Mr. Awesome. Of course.

There was another moment, in the wee hours of a Saturday morning, when "Vance & Hines Symphony No. FZR 600" was played at maximum volume by someone from my platoon (who shall remain nameless) in the on-base RV park. This savagery at 10,500 rpm may have jolted me from a tequila-induced stupor and spontaneously summoned PMO (the Marine version of the po-po). Thankfully, Johnny Law gave us a warning, I vomited up most of the offending substance, and returned to the arms of Morpheus.

Alright, so my choice of a first bike shaped me with more fear than most, plus it was mixed with large amounts of shame and regret. "Yes," you may ask, "but was it also fun?" Sure. Fun was sprinkled on top. Like seasoning. What I'm saying is that I did it wrong. This is what happens when you skip the MSF course, kids. Consider yourselves warned.

Consider also what happens to your heart and mind when you fail the California moto skills test the maximum number of times. That's when you realize there is no soup for you. Somebody forgot to tell me about how you can balance the bike with the clutch’s friction zone and the rear brake. Somebody also forgot to tell me how hard it is, as a beginner, to pass the moto skills test on a sport bike. And because I knew I needed no help at 22, I never advanced past my learner's permit with this bike.

But I do have a few good memories with the FZR. They feature sinewy tarmac in the San Gorgonio Wilderness near Big Bear. Rides with friends in the desert and soloing from Twentynine Palms to San Diego.

Which brings me to the moment I scared myself straight. Shortly before I sold it (he said, voice low and brows furrowed to suggest foreshadowing), I may or may not have experienced my FZR's vmax on an arrow-straight two-lane somewhere in the Mojave. At triple digits, time slowed. I could feel the bike moving beneath me like it had a mind of its own. Panic bitchslapped my speed-induced euphoria, and I realized I hadn't planned well. How would I roll off the throttle smoothly, apply the brakes without crashing, or even come to a safe stop? Oh yeah… that. Now I know what vulnerable feels like. (It's a lot like dreaming you went to school naked but then realize to your horror that it's not a dream.)

Obviously, since I'm writing these lines, I survived. I do remember — finally stopped on the shoulder, engine idling, hands like claws around the grips &mdash taking many deep breaths. And thinking. It felt like I'd just got my life back. My need for speed was fully quenched.

I continued riding after that, but my 140-ish mph incident had taken all the fun out of the ride for me. I'd seen behind the curtain and was no longer amused. Did I think of the Yamaha as my personal version of the homicidal bicycle from Calvin & Hobbes? Maybe. Judge for yourself because not long after, I traded the bike straight across for a 1978 BMW 530i sedan with an automatic transmission and brown paint. O, how the mighty fall.

But had I fallen out of love with moto? No.

I think I just needed a reset; I had simply done it wrong. The FZR was a deep-end experience that helped me see without a doubt that invincible was not a thing I happened to be. I'm grateful for that revelation because it has helped me avoid full-on jackassery.

Well… sometimes.

That was the 1990s, and this is now. In March, 2024, older and wiser, I finally passed my moto skills test as a returning rider. I can't imagine a bigger contrast than the one between my FZR600 and the taped-together Suzuki TU250X I rode to ultimate victory (with perfect scores, no less). Gee thanks, MSF. It's amazing what you can do when you have a little help from friends.

Soon it'll be time to buy my second bike ever. Now that I'm no longer using lighter fluid for hair gel, am I eyeballing a Royal Enfield Himalayan 450? Hell, maybe. Whatever it is, it'll be a bike that will let me enjoy the ride instead of trying to kill me.