In Part One, I began listing habits, methods, and principles relevant to effective rider education, especially the part we all need to do in between formal training events: practice! The focus was on concrete, physical actions over verbal or conceptual ideas, given the fact any theoretical mastery we achieve is really only useful if our bodies can execute the associated commands. Such execution requires sensory-muscular (e.g., eye-hand) coordination, disciplined reflexes (e.g., look where you want to go), and “muscle memory” (deeply ingrained movement sequences that occur without conscious deliberation). The only way to develop these vital resources is to practice the actual skills that utilize them; reading, talking, thinking, or watching videos about them will not yield the necessary learning. While mental and interpersonal processing can be immensely helpful—even indispensable, these only set the stage for the main act, which features our bodies, not our minds.

Minds are simply too slow for emergency maneuvering, or even spirited riding. Standard linear thought—primarily a function of our brains’ frontal lobes—is ponderously inefficient, with each step taken one at a time. If we had to depend on this kind of thinking for our survival, we’d have all died long ago. Forget dealing with a car pulling out in front of us, jungle beasts would have feasted on the last human being eons before internal combustion was invented. Fortunately, our brains can employ a faster neural network that bypasses the frontal lobes. I won’t bore you with the neuroanatomy here, but you’ve probably experienced this alternative circuitry in action without knowing what it was.

Here’s an example:

While walking through the woods, you suddenly jump to the left involuntarily. On your way through the air, you make out a dark twisty shape on the ground to the right of the trail. Is that a snake?! As you get your bearings, you realize it’s merely a fallen branch, but your heart is racing and your breathing is fast and shallow; the adrenaline has already been released to help you flee.

If this had all waited for your frontal lobes to register the “snake,” assess the threat level, and plan a course of action, you’d have been bitten by a real serpent before you were halfway through that process. Instead, your brain noted the snake-like image and sent the “get away from it!” signal to your muscles before you were even conscious of what was happening. You might feel silly for jumping unnecessarily, but survival instincts err on the side of caution, not contemplation.

Practice allows us to create and amend automatic reactions, with other circuitry taking over when our frontal lobes would be inadequate. This might mean developing a new “unnatural” reflex, like downshifting when coming to a stop, or it could be a matter of substituting a better reflex for one already in place. An example of the latter would be letting out the clutch (and/or adding throttle and/or reducing rear brake pressure) when the bike feels like it’s falling to the inside of a U-turn. This should replace the more natural impulse to pull in the clutch and stab at the ground with a foot to try to catch the falling weight, which usually guarantees the bike will indeed go to ground.

Without further ado, here are more ways to practice well.

DIVIDE AND CONQUER—THEN INTEGRATE
In keeping with the above limitations of our cognitive apparatus, we have only so much attention. At the same time, there are a multitude of things going on while we’re rolling on two wheels. It’s not remotely possible for a human being to consciously monitor all the different incoming data streams and deliberately command all our muscles to flex and release in exactly the right ways. Ideally, we learn tasks in relative isolation so we can focus on them as tightly as possible. These become the building blocks for more complicated combinations, and with practice they become increasingly reflexive and automatic, requiring less and less conscious monitoring, decision-making, and piecemeal efforts.

We come to think in bigger chunks, with individual actions packaged together in categories more concerned with outcomes than inputs. Instead of attending to the sequential considerations of panic braking (e.g., first make sure to squeeze the lever instead of grabbing it, then apply increasing force up to the limit of front traction, while easing off pressure on the rear brake pedal to avoid losing braking power to a skid; keep eyes and head up while simultaneously downshifting with appropriate clutch operation to keep the motor ready to promptly deliver forward thrust again if needed for evasive maneuvering), we “simply” intend to “STOP NOW!” and all the other things happen as well-rehearsed parts of that single imperative. Reaching this level of proficiency starts with exercises meant to create and reinforce neurophysiological links that can be trusted to function faster than we can think. It’s like playing scales and learning finger positions on a musical instrument on the way to actually making music. By first following systematically disciplined instructions, we’re eventually able to use the same muscular patterns for spontaneous expression.

DISTRACTION SUBTRACTION
To facilitate focused concentration on the skill we’re trying to develop, we need to reduce the number and intensity of competing concerns. If I’m working on tightening the radius of my swerve turns by weaving through a series of adjacent spaces in a parking lot, but I’m worried about damaging my bike and/or body in a low-speed fall, I’ll actually be more likely to hit the pavement because of my divided attention. By mounting frame- and axle-sliders or crash bars, using an inexpensive motorcycle for such drills, and wearing good protective gear head to toe despite the walking pace involved, I can relieve my mind of those concerns to a significant degree. I still don’t want to fall, of course, but the stakes are much lower when inevitable mistakes are made. If we’re absolutely unwilling to risk a drop, we will remain locked into a rather limited skill set, since flirting with the edge of our personal performance envelope (in a controlled environment—NOT on the street) is essential to expanding it, and necessarily involves overstepping as part of the learning process. If I tried to learn how to swing a golf club, but couldn’t afford to make any mistakes, I obviously couldn’t even begin the first lesson.

Out on the road or trail, it’s also important to eliminate extraneous pressures, worries, and other distractions. That could mean turning off music, riding at my own pace instead of trying to keep up with a faster buddy, or being well-prepared for bad weather. While the goal is automating as many riding skills as possible, the learning process still involves conscious attention at the cutting edge of our ability; the less divided that attention, the more efficiently we’ll learn. At the same time, pointing our attention to the most relevant details (e.g., reading clues about the road ahead, noticing feedback from tires, steering, and suspension) means relinquishing attention elsewhere (e.g., interesting trip computer calculations, beautiful scenery), which may be a struggle at first and involve some straddling of domains.

INTERPOLATE AND EXTRAPOLATE
We can’t prepare for every possibility. On a motorcycle, as in life in general, we’re constantly using data points from the past to infer how to interpret and react to what’s happening in the present. The more data points we have from a wide variety of past experiences, the more accurately and quickly we can make sense of our current circumstances and respond effectively. Learning how to ride a motorcycle—that is, one motorcycle—is only the start of becoming a competent motorcyclist. To really know how motorcycles respond to control inputs and cope with environmental variables, like changes in available traction, we need experience on a variety of machines in a variety of situations. This isn’t just so we can hop on another type of bike and ride it well somewhere new. It’s also a way of gaining a deeper understanding of the bike we ride most of the time. For instance, if we develop a feel for multiple rake and trail configurations, we’ll know how our own bike’s steering is a function of such geometry—not just theoretically, but experientially. Likewise, if we’ve learned how to deal with a spinning rear wheel stepping out of line in loose dirt, we’ll have many of the reflexes needed to manage an errant rear end on wet pavement. One bike will reveal principle X more vividly, while another bike is a better teacher of principle Y. We need to know both. Riding different kinds of bikes in a range of settings teaches us how to pilot the category of vehicles called Motorcycles in a broad sense, with a deeper, richer appreciation of the dynamics in play for any particular example.

KEEP IT REAL
Good learning is based on hard evidence, not speculation or conformity with cherished beliefs. I may imagine I leaned waaaaay over in that corner, but the GoPro recording shows I was much more upright than I thought. I may have a vague sense of myself improving on some parking lot drills, but if I keep track of my performance in a little log book, I can see what I’ve actually accomplished and where I need the most work. Doing figure-eights in the middle of an unmarked cul-de-sac won’t be as useful as doing them within a measured and marked rectangle, which I can methodically shrink in small increments as I get better. It’s more gratifying to know I’ve made a specific, objectively measurable gain than to only have a subjective feeling I’m better (I’ll have the latter, too).

Truth is not democratic; just because a bunch of people agree on something doesn’t make it real. One approach to trail braking may be touted as The Way by multiple authorities, but if it doesn’t work well for me on my bike, I need to hunt for something else and experiment to see what holds up in actual practice. We innately look to popular consensus for orientation, but no matter what most people say, we’re responsible for testing things out on our own. Yet it’s also important to take seriously input from others we trust and respect. If riders who’ve demonstrated superior skill tell me I need to change my technique, I really ought to try doing so.

The Ride Inside with Mark Barnes is brought to you by the MOA Foundation. You can join the BMW Motorcycle Owners of America quickly and easily to better take advantage of the Paul B Grant and Clark Luster programs mentioned in this episode.

FEAR ITSELF
The learning process involves a great deal of un-learning. That may be a matter of eliminating bad habits or discarding misinformation, but it can also be about reprogramming emotional responses. Because of the many dangers involved in motorcycling, riders typically contend with numerous fears. Some of these are totally legitimate and helpful; our fear of being struck by a car motivates us to stay vigilant in traffic, and our fear of crashing in a curve prompts us to ride within our limits and develop better cornering skills. However, some fears are counterproductive and based on erroneous assumptions. As mentioned earlier, we can feel instantaneous panic in a U-turn as we sense the bike tipping to the inside; this is our inborn response to an imminent fall and we reflexively cut power to the rear wheel (whoa!) and try to catch the toppling mass with an outstretched leg, which usually doesn’t end well.

With the repeated physical experience (not theoretical understanding) of holding the bike up by adding power to the rear wheel, we not only cement that technique as a replacement reflex, we also extinguish the automatic fear response. We no longer construe the tipping sensation as indicating a fall is imminent, it’s just a prompt to feed in more torque—no different than the sensation of spotting your mailbox as a cue to turn into your driveway. This is the basis of “exposure therapy,” wherein a phobia may be reduced or eradicated by repetitious incremental encounters with a feared object or situation; the person gradually learns those events don’t have to end with the anticipated catastrophe.

Ultimately, the best practices are the ones you’ll actually do, just like the best gear is the gear you’ll actually wear. Sure, some gear is arguably superior to other gear, but if you won’t wear it, the point is moot. There are many ways to incorporate good practice into your riding life. You don’t have to do all of them, but you do need to do something to maximize your safety, performance, and enjoyment on two wheels.

Mark Barnes is a clinical psychologist and motojournalist. To read more of his writings, check out his book Why We Ride: A Psychologist Explains the Motorcyclist’s Mind and the Love Affair Between Rider, Bike and Road, currently available in paperback through Amazon and other retailers.