Reflection at the Intersection of Writing and Riding
What Motorcycles Taught Me about Teaching Writing.
When beginning a draft, it’s always a challenge. You stare at the blank page and the cursor blinks back. When you’re on the back of the bike, the engine idles as you rock the bike forwards and backwards with your feet, kind of like how you might start doodling in the margins of lined paper with a pen. You feel the weight — of the steel frame, of the pen, of your thoughts and ideas that are racing through your head. It’s only when you push forward, when you set your feet on the pegs or press the pen to paper, that you really start going somewhere. You carve the bike into curves, you sculpt your ideas to the edges of known and unknown. The pressure that had been building in your head from anticipation or anxiety before you began eases. You start shaping the story — your story — and decide which direction you’re going in.
And you get going.
But there’s more to it than that. This ability to go from 0 to 60 doesn’t just happen. This origin story doesn’t begin with just a starting point. It starts with a want for success, with that journey towards success defined by a willingness to learn. More often than not, in both writing and riding it involves a willingness to overcome a fear.
My first experience riding a motorcycle was when I was a kid at my childhood best friend’s house, who had a black mini bike. After swinging my leg over and twisting the throttle at the direction of my friend, with little other guidance to go with, I ended up crashing through a section of their backyard fence.
I quickly decided after that incident that motorcycles and dirt bikes weren’t for me. I would stick with riding automatic four-wheeled ATVs of varied sizes throughout the remainder of my middle and high school years, keeping myself away from the embarrassment that my memory brought to mind. That soft whisper of “Hey, remember when…?”
Like myself with riding motorcycles, a lot of my students in the writing classroom and the writing center come to me with experiences that have left them avoiding writing. In some cases, one scene of failure plays in their mind like my own riding failure. But more often than not, these students had been told by loved ones and teachers alike that they can’t write, that they need to improve on their grammar and mechanics, that they will need to do better if they wish to survive in college, or a combination of such critiques and criticism with specific “rules" to follow. They’ve heard these ideas to the point that they don’t believe in themselves or their creative abilities.
So they side-step. They make up excuses of “oh, I’m a science and math kind of person,” or “English isn’t my native language, I can’t write well because my grammar is terrible.” So when they’re told that they need to go to the writing center, or when they’re told they have to take another English class, they come through the door hesitant and unconfident.
What does Stephanie think of Stephanie the Rider?
When I came home that day, my brothers were quick to laugh and jest at my failures, but my father held a stern face. He had been riding since the age of six and knew how instruction is supposed to be. Questions of “Who was present? What did they instruct you to do? What were you wearing?” led to a lecture of being taught by teachers with valid experience and discussion of how I should have actually been instructed.
In my riding experience, I side-stepped towards riding four-wheeled ATVs. Despite my uncle and father both willing to teach me the proper techniques to ride using what they had learned over thirty years of experience and a cousin’s dirt bike, I turned away with the memory of my failure on the mini bike in my mind.
My first experiences that would lead me towards riding on my own were riding pillion behind another rider on dirt bikes and motorcycles. As the passenger, I clung tight to my cousin on the back of his dirt bike as he zipped through the woods like a dragonfly. When my father received a trade offer of a motorcycle and cash for his old service truck, he took me for rides along the back country roads of my hometown. When he upgraded to a touring bike, I began tagging along as a passenger on longer rides. These experiences tested my fears that I’d harbored for years — I wasn’t in control and didn’t have to worry about shifting or managing the engine, but as a passenger, I still had to move and lean with the bike as I was led around trees and through curves.
With time, I craved that feeling of the wind. I craved that quiet connection with the road and the engine and feeling through the tires. I didn’t worry about the world when I was on the back of the bike. I was part of it.
What does Stephanie think of Stephanie the Writer?
When I start the semester with a new class or begin a series of writing center sessions with a student, I always like to ask them what they think of themselves as writers to gauge their confidence to finish a project. I find my goal typically is to help my students build confidence in their skills and believe in themselves. Part of helping students get started in writing is to give them time to write, but the part often missed is helping them get out of their heads. Writing can be as freeing as riding, but just like swinging a leg over a motorcycle, it takes courage to start. Perhaps more importantly, it takes someone else believing in you to accomplish the task.
Both in writing and in riding, someone looking to learn and improve in the craft or sport can read hundreds of books or watch thousands of YouTube videos, but the best training is from an instructor who actively works alongside their students to show them how to improve. They walk alongside you, they offer a separate perspective to show how you actions might be interpreted.
During my undergraduate career, I took a creative writing class in which I had to present a draft of fiction to the class. It would be my only draft that these peers would see. I had played with a draft that had been concocted at an earlier time at a different place, and with tweaking I was worried of how it would be perceived. As I learned techniques through the class and adjusted it based on the feedback that others were receiving, it came time for me to present my draft.
It’s a scary thing to let your piece stand on its own. At that stage of first revisions, it still seems to be a piece of you — an appendage of your ideas and ways of thought. I sat in the center of the room, listening to others as they provided feedback to adjust aspects of the draft. The instructor quietly smiled at me and told me “There’s only one thing left for you to do, really.” He turned to the whiteboard and picked up a red marker. In capital letters that matched the size of the board, he wrote:
“KEEP GOING!!!”
I began riding with my father setting me on a dirt bike, on which I began puttering through the yard in first gear. He showed me the basics, but in the same fashion of my parents teaching me writing, I needed a teacher who would work with me to build these skills further. I registered for the last available session of the season provided by the Harley-Davidson Riding Academy, bought the proper gear, and showed up for class.
Smile Beautiful, you’re riding!
The first time I stepped foot onto the riding range, where I would begin the physical process of learning to ride on a motorcycle over the course of two days, I had just completed the written exam the night before. I felt the need to impress the coaches and prove myself. Only 20% of all motorcyclists are women riders, and there were only two women in my class, including me. Most of the other riders in the class had been riding for years on dirt bikes or motorcycles, and were just taking the course as a refresher or to complete the process to obtain an official license. The memory of a black mini bike haunted my mind along with the resulting teases and fears of that first experience.
One of my instructors, a silver-haired biker in a yellow MSF coaching jacket, took a liking to me and would help me calm my nerves with banter and reminding me that I could do this with gentle redirection. “Hey Beautiful, you see those cones there? You’re supposed to go between 'em, not around them. Now get back in line and try again. Look this time.”
At the end of those two days, I had passed the qualifications for obtaining a motorcycle license. I came home thrilled that I had accomplished my goal, and in awe of their teaching practices. How was it that I was able to successfully navigate tight turns and sudden stops on a 600 lb. manual machine in just two days?
It wasn’t sheer luck and it wasn’t just absorbing information given to me in a packet that led to my success. It had to do with time and effort put in from both myself and my instructors. In controlled environments, risks and failures are allowed to exist. For instructors, it takes patience and persistence to tweak and adjust practices to fit students’ needs. Just as my coaches would press me forward with guidance and demonstrate exercises for the class using one of the bikes, my sessions focus on guiding with questions, modeling and discussing tasks, and giving time to practice those tasks.
Unlike those who drive cars, motorcyclists have the opportunity to continue their training, and additional courses are promoted as ways to stay keen on the road and around the bike. My instructors quickly informed my cohort and I that we would need to continue our training after the course in order to keep up with the skills we had learned and to call them if we had further questions or wanted additional guidance.
On the side of my new helmet, I placed a decal that reads “When you think you know it all, it’s a sure sign you don’t” to remind myself that I still have more to learn and that there’s always someone who can teach me more. When I first completed the riding course, I felt confident that I knew what I needed to know, but time away from the course has since proven that I need to consistently practice in order to master important skills. I’m now preparing to restart my ride in the dirt as I get used to riding along sharp curves and around steep hills. I’m taking my time, and still learning to give myself the grace that my instructors have given me since I began this journey. It’s the same grace I offer to my students — it’s the recognition of trying, it’s the recognition of working through a process rather than one step. It’s the voice that says “keep going!”