Get low. (No, not under the motorcycle. You're doing it wrong!)

Well, I laid my motorcycle over for the first time today and got a good object lesson in why AGATT is so important.

I wasn't taking the bike out because I don't have my license, registration, and insurance taken care of yet - okay, I lied. I was totally going to putter the bike over to an empty church parking lot about a hundred feet from my parents' house (where I am temporarily storing the bike) and practice deliberate countersteering. I didn't even make it out of the driveway.

Since I'm having battery issues with the bike (I think it's just flat from lack of use) my first order of business upon rolling it out of the garage was to try and give it a bump-start. I have only seen my dad do this once before when I discovered the battery problem, and my efforts to reproduce the appropriate effect were less than stellar. Mostly I just rolled back and forth in the driveway, trying to get the engine going every time I jammed forward. Every time it would buck and stall like an ornery colt, and I would get a little hotter. I was sitting in the baking sun in almost full gear (skipped the gloves) and getting more and more frustrated all the time.

So about the tenth time I back the bike up to make a running start at it, I feel my balance slipping. And then the bike is listing insistently to the right, and I am falling with it.

CRUNCH.

Suddenly I am lying in my driveway with a 330 pound motorcycle lying on top of me, in full riding gear. My first thought was a hope that none of my neighbors were tooling around outside to see me. A quick glance around told me so far, so good.

I squirmed out from under the bike and set it back up as instructed in Hough's Proficient Motorcycling, which I read cover to cover this weekend. Using his method, Wing came up quick - no muss, no fuss. It made me happy to realize that I picked a bike small enough for me to handle on my own, without anyone's help. I checked her over for damage and panicked a little when I saw a small puddle of gasoline at the base of the bike, but a short Net search calmed me on that front. A small gas leak is apparently par for the course when you lay a bike over (overflow vent). The leak stopped quickly and it seemed that my leg and palm took the brunt of the punishment. Nothing else that I could detect other than a scuffed handbrake, which seemed to operate just fine. Won't really know until I try to get her running again though, I guess.

You see, the only gear I have so far is jacket, helmet, gloves, and boots. I fell in jean capris and with no gloves on - they were lying uselessly on a shelf in the garage ten feet behind me. As a result, I have a lovely scrape on my palm and a pair to match on my knee and elbow. This is why AGATT is so important. If I had been wearing my gloves and a pair of real jeans, I probably wouldn't have gotten banged up at all. Oh well. Live and learn.

Anyway, that was the end of my riding adventures for the day. I can only stand so much excitement and entrapment. I rolled her back into the garage before I could do any more damage and headed back to work. The next time I do anything moto-related, it will be when my father, the all-knowing Sage Biker, is around to make sure I don't bust myself up (or worse yet, my bike).

And the moral of the story is:

*drumroll*

Death wish.

The youngest person to ever be killed at Indianapolis took the bite yesterday – 13 year-old Peter Lenz, one of America’s rising motorcycle racing stars, was struck and killed by a fellow racer during warm up laps before the Sunday races. According to eye witnesses, Lenz fell off his own bike and managed to stand up on the track before being hit by a following racer who could not see him and did not have the dexterity to avoid him.

This was the first news story I read this morning, less than a week after I bought my first motorcycle.

There were two pictures that dominated the associated press with regards to the crash this morning. One where Lenz is on a stretcher and the paramedics are trying in vain to revive him. The other picture, much more sinister, is a picture of Lenz’ body on the ground. The most shocking thing about this picture (and probably the reason it mysteriously disappeared from much of the Internet shortly after I saw it) is the thick runner of blood crossing the asphalt from Lenz’ tiny broken body. It is the most jarring image in the entire photograph.

So why am I showing it here? Believe me, it is not out of disrespect for the rider. It's to make a point. This is real. Death is a legitimate risk involved with riding motorcycles - no getting around it. This is what happens when you are dealing with closing forces over 120 miles an hour, regardless of how skilled you are or how much gear you wear. This is what it means to cheat death and lose.

No doubt that Lenz understood the risks of his sport – he sure as heck understood them a lot better than the squids who go racing around in public streets in tank tops and flip flops. Someone cruel and insensitive might even insinuate that to pursue such an affinity with motorcycles is a death wish, and that Peter Lenz’ end was simply a self-fulfilling prophecy. As one person on scene observed, it’s an ugly, terrible side of the sport. And the sheer youth of the person involved makes it an even bigger blip on the American landscape, a more notable tragedy than the thousands of regular, everyday motorcyclists who are killed in the United States every year.

We are a nation obsessed with the sleek and the fast, and when our love comes back to bite us, we are always surprised.

Still, his death is a grim reminder to me of the risks involved with the sport I’ve chosen to undertake, even though I won’t necessarily be tooling around at 120 miles an hour anytime soon, and I don’t have the burning desire to do so, either. When 20 mph still feels fast to you on a motorcycle, 120 mph is unfathomable. As dangerous as motorcycle track racing is, there are racers who refuse to ride their bikes in traffic, which is the path I've chosen. The fact that guys who have no problem racing on a closed track are hesitant to ride in traffic is a telling testimony to just how dangerous cars, trucks, vans, and SUVs can be to motorcyclists.

The unspoken response to my remark about the news at the office was raised eyebrows and a you want to ride one of those? look. If you ride motorcycles, or engage in any other activity that is more strenuous than mowing your lawn, you are likely to receive The Look from someone about something. It is The Look that says you are mad for doing something, because don’t you know you’re going to die?

To these people, I always want to respond, “Don’t you know you’re going to die anyway, whether you risk your life or not?”

As part of my preparation for learning to ride, I’ve spent a lot of time looking at the results of motorcycle wrecks, not because I’m morbid or enjoy looking at the gory remnants of people who were dumb, drunk, or just unlucky, but because I’m not an idiot. I am not one of these people who sees a picture of a motorcyclist ripped in half by a street light and thinks, “There’s no way that could happen to me.” On the contrary, it makes me think of all the things I need to be thinking about in the saddle to avoid these things happening to me. You can’t control all things, but you can control a LOT of things. You might not be able to keep someone from trying to run you off the road because they “didn’t see you”, but you can make yourself prepared to make yourself scarce when the situation rears its ugly head. And if you don’t want to end up under the tires, you’ll make an effort.

This kid had nine national championships and he still got bit. Just something to think about the next time you think you’re good enough to get away with skipping some gear or hitting that twist beyond your abilities.

Lenz died doing what he loved, and he achieved more in the sport of motorcycle racing in a few short years than most people achieve over the course of their entire careers. And that’s saying a lot. There are worst ways to go out. Everyone dies, but not everyone truly lives.

Rest in peace. You did good, kid.

I am officially outside of my mind.

My name is Kellye, and I'm a 25 year-old writer and editor from Alabama. This past Wednesday I bought my first motorcycle, a pearl white 2006 Honda Rebel 250 with an endearing dent in the fuel tank from being laid over by a previous owner at a stoplight. I bought it with no advice from anyone, no permission, no outside input whatsoever. The decision to learn to ride was entirely mine, and it's been on my own secret unwritten bucket list for a long time.

Besides that, my elderly Grand Am (160,000 miles and counting) is wearing down fast on my forty-mile-a-day commute, and she guzzles gas - as a result, I have been forced to consider a form of transportation with a little better mileage and a lot more style.

All of my friends, family, and coworkers think I have gone completely mad, or perhaps have succumbed to some insidious early form of midlife crisis, or am, alternately, revealing my decision to ride as a way of coming out about my secret death wish. My mother is convinced that I am going to disfigure, kill, or otherwise maim myself for life. My dad, a veteran biker in his own right who has owned dozens of them over the years, is equally convinced.

But part of my issue with driving cars (hereafter referred to in this blog only half-affectionately as "cages") is the sheer level of distracting stuff involved in driving one. There are radio stations to change, cell phones to fiddle with, passing scenery to gawk at. Cages almost give you a false sense of security, because even if you do run into something, you're very unlikely to get seriously hurt.

A motorcycle lends no such false sense of security. You are traveling across unforgiving asphalt at 40, 50, 70 miles an hour. (And it feels about as twice as fast as it goes.) There are no "crumple zones". The cocky, the unwary, and the disrespectful get bitten in a big way. If your bike bucks you, your next big ride might be in the back of an ambulance, or a coroner's wagon.

What's worse, it doesn't matter whether the reason for your wreck is someone else or not. As people have told me over and over again since I came out about my deep dark desire to ride, it's not you you have to be worried about, it's the other guy. You know how the old ditty goes: Here lies good old Mike O'Day, he died defending his right of way. He was right - dead right - as he sped along, but he's just as dead as if he'd been wrong.

On a motorcycle, I don't experience any of that absent-minded professor syndrome or penchant for trivial over-multitasking that I typically do in a car. No - on a bike, all multitasking is crucial to my survival, and any lack of coordination on my part could result in my sudden death, and - most importantly - there would be no one else to blame but me. There is a delicious amount of freedom in this knowledge. My life is in my own hands.

On a motorcycle, my wild ADD-driven multitasking is reserved entirely for the mount - clutch, foot shift, hand brake. Counter steer, apex line, sight distance. On average, motorcyclists have to make as many reflex-based decisions as a fighter pilot. These are NOT things your average commuter has to deal with.

Are they too much for this only-slightly-daring entry level cube rat to deal with? I guess that's the pivotal question, and it's one we'll find out together, soon enough. I am starting this blog to keep in contact with others who have been touched by this crazy obsession, since with most of the people I know, "crazy" is the operative word.

But lots of stuff to take care of between now and then - living wills to draft, insurance policies to haggle, titles to switch, and appropriate licenses to acquire. To the DMV!