Ladies and Gentleman. For your viewing pleasure we offer you a multi instalment article on one man's road to motorcycle nirvana - from initial ponderings, all the way through to experienced rider. The man's name is James Sheppard, who sends us these scribblings from glorious Manitoba. The articles are submitted as they happen and so (barring death) this will be the first instalment of many (well at least two). Take it away Jimmy Boy!

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      As I sit here and wonder exactly why I am about to spend as much as $7000 I do not have on what can best be described as a hobby in these parts, my mind wanders back to the instance where I decided that I wanted to ride motorcycles.

      I spent the summer of '96 in Europe on a backpacking tour with a friend. I considered the trip my reward for 5 years of post-secondary education and 2 years of establishing myself as a teacher in a very small town. In my travels early on, I took quite a few photos on the passing automotive exotica that seemed to be on every street corner. In fact, I was very nearly forced to travel alone when I chased a Ferrari Dino 246 through the streets of a Swiss resort on the shores of Lake Lamond - On foot, with a backpack regurgitating its contents to the horrors of the locals, most of which were used to the antics of moronic tourists. Apparently low-quality gouda is not something you carry around in a hot and humid pack and then deposit in front of a street quartet performing Mozart. I checked later, and this was not recommended behavior according to my "Let's Go -- Europe" Guide. Much to the relief on my companion, I settled down sufficiently to return to our hostel, satisfied with at least getting closed enough to inhale the un- catalyzed fumes of super unleaded wafting from the quad Ansa exhausts.

      It was in Venice that I experienced my two-wheeled epiphany. After getting lost in the motor-less city, I decided I wanted to go swimming. With this noble goal in mid, we set off for the beaches of Lido, a nearby island that permitted road-going vehicles. I had made the moronic decision to swim the unfamiliar waters of the Adriatic after dark, with my grasp of Italian falling far short of a translation for, "Help, a giant squid has my leg!", or something of that nature. Surviving this, it was on our return trip that I experienced the auditory and respiratory pollution known as a Chesterfield Aprilia 125. Sounding like a poorly-tuned Husquavarna chain saw (and smogging just as badly), idled up to the stop light adjacent to me. The Max Biaggi wannabe astride the mount flipped up his visor, gave this gringo tourist a cool stare, and took off. A block away, he feathered the clutch, and popped a wheelie. Bellisimo! I had truly been smitten by this display of sportbike prowess. The seed had been sown -- I wanted one for myself.

      Nearly a year later I have my pride and joy across from me for inspiration as I write. No, not a Laverda 668 or a Ducati 916, or even my previous bike, '77 XR 75, but a new Bieffe Pole Position Helmet. I look very cool in it. I spent one Saturday morning watching the Indycarnival in Australia and a tape of

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the opening AMA round enthusiastically making raspberry sounds with helmet securely in place. My first exposure to helmet head in years! In the mirror, I also noticed red indentations on my cheeks that showed the world (my empty apartment) that I had a cool helmet. Joy!!! With my wire rimmed glasses, I could very easily pass for Paul Tracy or Greg Moore. The next thing I must pass, however, is my learner's test. Almost intimidating as the people at the DMV will be the people at the bank who are financing my newest adventure. I have found some potential bikes on which to cut my teeth -- new Ninjas: a 250 or a 500, or a Honda VTR 250. All are small light, and fairly close in price. So, hopefully by my next installment, I'll be licensed and on the road, terrorizing the local townsfolk of Rivers, MB. I'll leave the wheelie tips for later.

James Sheppard