There are two kinds of people who exercise: those who consider their fitness regimen (however extensive or modest it may be) an onerous means to a desired end, and those who enjoy it as intrinsically pleasurable. The former type often employs distraction (music, screens, conversation) to minimize their awareness of the physical discomforts involved; they can’t wait for it to be over. The latter type minimizes distractions in order to relish those very same bodily sensations, which are interpreted not merely as discomfort, but as gratifying evidence of their achievement in that moment—they have found the edge of their envelope and want to hover there as long and as vividly as they can. Obviously, the chances of sustaining an exercise routine are far greater when we don’t have to force ourselves to do it and instead look forward to such activities in their own right; the fact they also deliver benefits elsewhere in our lives can just be (very valuable) icing on the cake. And if we want to maximize the number of waking minutes spent feeling good instead of bad, we’ll certainly come out ahead if we can put whatever time we spend exercising in that ledger’s positive column, rather than counting it as obligatory drudgery. I’m guessing the greatest challenge for a personal trainer isn’t designing effective regimens to improve their clients’ strength, stamina and flexibility, but rather bolstering their motivation to stick with any program at all. Hence the fitness world’s adage, “The most important exercise is driving to the gym.”
This principle applies in spades to rider training. The vast majority of motorcyclists don’t bother with any type of skill development or maintenance whatsoever, formal or informal. They may have taken an MSF Basic RiderCourse at the outset to get a motorcycle endorsement on their driver’s license or a discount on their insurance, but that was as far as they got. Such folks consider the fundamental activity of riding all the practice they need, just as people may think whatever physical activities they perform during an average day suffice as support for adequate fitness—after all, if they’re doing what they need to on a daily basis, isn’t that proof they’re fit enough? We may be able to accomplish the most commonly required tasks, whether easily or with some strain, but what happens when the challenge ramps up? If we’re just barely capable of the regular stuff, it’s highly unlikely we’ll do well on anything beyond that, with considerable potential for failure or injury. If the heaviest thing we lift is a water pitcher, how can we expect to move a couch without negative repercussions? Are we really going to right a toppled motorcycle? If the greatest cardio stress we endure over the course of a day is a couple thousand steps walking on level ground, what can we expect when a broken elevator forces us to take six flights of stairs? Forget hiking out of the woods to get help with a broken ADV bike!
When we’re talking about riding skills, even the cursory practice we get on casual rides may be quite sparse, depending on how often we actually occupy a saddle. If the hardest thing we do there is navigate a few familiar curves and intersections, how could we possibly handle a sudden loss of traction, a panic stop or an evasive maneuver? How about simply executing a U-turn because the road is blocked? Without any meaningful reflection, we can put our faith in an unrealistic fantasy that the surge of motivation prompted by a crisis would magically be accompanied by a commensurate surge in competence. This is akin to believing we could win any street fight if we’re just angry enough, even though we’ve never learned anything about self-defense apart from watching action movies. Not a good bet.
My point is this: We need to regularly push ourselves beyond the minimum requirements of routine life if we’re to have any hope of successfully managing irregular stressors. This is true in a multitude of dimensions, but I’ll stick to riding skills. I could extoll the benefits of regular practice, highlighting its contributions to safety and joy during the rest of our time with wheels turning, along with the psychological perks of greater confidence and a sense of accomplishment. I’ve done that in other essays, and I’ll do more in the future. Here, however, I want to explore what can be done to make skill development more fun in and of itself. Maybe you already spend time on it because you value its effects, applying firm self-discipline to offset your begrudging reluctance. I applaud your efforts, but I think you’ll do even better if practice is less of a chore. If you currently do no such thing, I hope to spark some curiosity about what you’re missing—not only with regard to the aforementioned benefits (after all, those haven’t been enough to persuade you thus far), but also the inherent fun of “working” on your skills. Yes, this “work” can be fun with the right approach.
Attending to our technique is often associated with parking lot drills, and for good reason. A smooth, flat, clear surface in a large empty space is a great place for learning and honing low-speed maneuvers. Distractions and dangers are minimized, and it’s easy to do the exact same thing with plenty of repetition, which is essential to a) developing a conceptual understanding about what works through trial-and-error learning, adjusting one variable at a time, and b) consolidating muscle memory so the techniques learned become reflexive and no longer require much conscious thinking to execute. Out on the road, what we’ve learned at a snail’s pace carries over to a surprising degree. For example, if we get comfortable with a steeper lean angle at 12 mph, we’ll be less intimidated by it at 40 mph. If we get used to the sensations associated with activating our ABS in a hard stop from 25 mph, we won’t be startled by it when slowing abruptly from highway speeds. Of course, there are other things that don’t translate as directly, like counterbalancing a bike by leaning to the outside during a tight U-turn, versus reducing the required lean angle in a fast sweeper by moving our bodies to the inside.
Practice isn’t confined to dedicated drill sessions. It can happen any time we’re paying attention to our technique and trying to refine it. In fact, whenever we don’t pay attention to what we’re doing and spend time riding sloppily, we’re “practicing” bad technique and increasing the likelihood of behaving similarly in the future. We’re always deepening the grooves of our habits, for better or for worse; in this sense, every ride is a practice session whether we intend it to be or not. This doesn’t mean mindless riding automatically builds skill; quite the contrary, it can erode our skill set. Consciously taking opportunities to notice and improve our technique in any situation can yield progress—and add to the fun. I’m not suggesting we make every outing an endless series of dauntingly difficult self-imposed challenges! I am suggesting a certain mindset can enhance both enjoyment and competence simultaneously.
Finally, there’s formal training at a riding school. I’ll just mention it here, since this discussion is about what we can do autonomously on a routine basis. However, the mindset I’m about to describe is most definitely applicable to exercises done under the supervision of a riding coach, as well as the practice necessary after such instruction to cement and sustain the lessons learned.
The mindset I, uh, have in mind is a bit difficult to articulate. It’s somewhere in between artistry, playfulness and puzzle-solving. When I’m really enjoying practice, it’s because I’ve made a game of it—a game in which I adjust the level of difficulty based on my emotional whims, not some goal-oriented schedule of incremental advances. If I feel the need for a crushing victory, I make it super-easy. If I’m in the mood for a challenge, I’ll make it harder. If I’m doing very well and want to see just how far I can go, I’ll make it harder still. In the parking lot, this might take the form of changing the maximum diameter of a circle or the target distance for a panic stop. If I don’t want to spend time setting up cones or I’m doing this on the way to or from a ride, I’ll just use the parking space lines as reference points. The idea is to make the process as quick, simple and streamlined as possible, removing anything that resembles a hassle (the opposite of fun!). Having located a suitable lot near home makes these sessions even more convenient. I remove every barrier I can.
When out on a ride, I can consider each curve a chance to carve a silky smooth, late-apex arc, selecting an outside-inside-outside line that respects the margins of safety available based on surface conditions and the presence or absence of traffic. I might focus solely on the geometry of my path, or incorporate attention to my braking and throttle transitions, aiming for the absolute least impact on chassis pitch. There’s no pressure to meet a certain standard, I’m just playing at the edge of my moment-to-moment ability without exceeding a relaxed pace, paying attention to how each subtle input affects the bike’s behavior and my own sense of precision and control, seeing if I can get a more elegant result each time. It’s important to not become self-critical when this doesn’t happen; I just turn my attention to the next opportunity. Becoming a drill sergeant ruins the mood. The crucial discipline is being attentive, not whipping myself into shape.
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.
The primary goal, whether I’m in a parking lot or out on the road, is to be graceful. If I’m jerky or stiff or something happens I didn’t expect, I might slow down, or stop and stretch, or see if I can reproduce the experience and discern what I missed earlier. It’s an intriguing puzzle to be solved, and I’m genuinely interested in identifying all the components. The action is also a piece of artwork to refine, getting this or that movement to be more aesthetically pleasing. I take pride in the sense of mastery that comes with an advance, but I don’t get caught up in demanding achievement. Maybe today, for some unknown reason, I’m just not able to pull off as tight a figure-8 as I did last time. No sweat, I’ll probably be able to do better in the future. If I start getting frustrated about hitting some arbitrary benchmark, it’s time to switch my focus. I can do U-turns from a standing start and come back to figure-8s later, or at my next practice session. Hmmm… My left-hand U-turns aren’t quite as smooth as my right-hand ones today. I wonder why. Am I counterbalancing further on one side than the other? Am I looking as far around on the weaker side as I am on the stronger side? It’s just a pragmatic question; can I answer it with a few more attempts? If not, it’ll probably become apparent another day. How about some hard braking now?
Just like in weightlifting, running or yoga, the idea is to work at the edge of our capacity in the moment. If we can’t lift as heavy, run as far/fast, or go as deeply into a stretch today, we’ll still get the full benefit by simply doing what we can. The trick is to savor the feeling of being at that edge, wherever it happens to be right now. Over time, that edge will move and our personal frontier will expand. There’s no need to force it and risk injury and/or discouragement. It doesn’t take much frustration to poison the well and decrease the chances of returning to the project. A little tension can be motivating, but too much will be counterproductive. Sure, there’s a time and place for pushing ourselves hard, but being a slavedriver is apt to reduce our pleasure and therefore the frequency and duration of subsequent efforts. Until practice becomes ingrained in our riding routine, it must be treated as a fragile endeavor. A calm, non-judgmental, upbeat attitude is most of the recipe for success. A regular investment of time in this mindset will yield results—even if it’s just a five-minute warmup at the start of most rides or a deliberate focus on smoothness through a single series of curves at some point during each outing. It’s a private game to be played whenever the opportunity arises.
We may do best with a workout buddy or on our own. We may prefer the repetition of a familiar sequence or the spontaneity of mixing it up. We may find keeping track of our accomplishments edifying and inspiring, or burdensome and fodder for self-criticism. Whatever our personal proclivities, the crucial thing is to incorporate some version—the version we enjoy most—on a consistent basis. If we make it fun, it’ll feel like play instead of work. And we can make it fun by subtracting the pressure to perform, engaging our curiosity and creating a thing of beauty.
If you want some suggestions on how to practice, there’s a wide variety of good instruction readily available on YouTube. Several of my favorites are MotoJitsu, Moto Control, MC Rider, Jerry Palladino (Ride Like a Pro) and DanDanTheFireman, but there are many others. Indulge your personal preferences. Find one you like and dig in. Ready for a slightly greater commitment? Consider an online training program, such as Jon Delvecchio’s Cornering Confidence or Yamaha Champions Riding School’s ChampU (both of which are available to MOA members at a substantial discount). The old MSF motto is true, “The more you know, the better it gets.” We don’t have to tolerate tedium to get that payoff.
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.
