The test was in Newport, which is a city I know a little better, and which has more recently benefitted from infrastructure spending. The Ryder Cup came to Newport a few years ago and the city went to the trouble to paint lines on its roads. It’s still littered with completely illogical turns and junctions, but so, too, is every single village, town and city in the rest of Britain.
The straightest, most direct roads in this country are still those laid out by Romans almost 2,000 years ago. Everything else was almost certainly the result of some fella’s drunken stumble home from the pub and no one has ever sobered up enough to straighten things out.
It baffles and frustrates me that motorcycle tests are not available in Cardiff: Wales’ capital city. I know Cardiff and would not have to add a feeling of disorientation to the long list of pressures that are part of the Mod 2. But, of those cities and towns where the test is available, I suppose Newport would be top of my list. Both myself and my former partner have worked there.
The examiner, too, left me feeling more comfortable this time. He was agreeable in explaining the test to me and, most importantly, he had a radio that worked. We set out and the sun was shining. And the test went really well…
Until I came to a junction where I was supposed to turn left and the light suddenly went yellow. Instantly I assessed the situation: I took into account that the stop line was at least 30 feet away from the actual junction, and that I knew I was going to take the turn gingerly because it was at slightly sharper than a 90-degree angle, and that right behind me there was a dude I figured would almost certainly fail me if I got caught in the junction when the light turned red. I pulled hard on the brakes. I didn’t skid, it wasn’t an emergency stop, but it was a quick one and I ended up with my front wheel about 8 inches past the white line.
That’s where I failed. And in my gut I knew it. I dropped my head a little, but quickly straightened up because the thing is: you haven’t failed a test until they tell you that you’ve failed the test. In my Mod 1 exam I had oh-so-slightly dabbed my right foot on the ground during a stop and the examiner didn’t even mention it. Perhaps, I thought, I would be able to ride through this error.
We rode on for another 20 minutes or so and I did really well. I was ticking all the stupid little boxes. And with each minute the test carried on I started to feel that, yes, I had pulled it off. After all, if the examiner really was going to fail me, why have me keep riding around?
“Well, first thing,” he said, once we were back in his office and he was helping me to get the radio off. “Is that, unfortunately, you did not pass.”
And I started to spiral from that point. I don’t really feel like going into it. There was me staring at the ground, feeling sick. Then wandering outside and driving my fists into my head in rage and frustration.
This stupid fucking thing. This stupid fucking little goal that was supposed to help me lift myself up from all the other fucking failures of my life and I was incapable of pulling it off. This stupid fucking country; what was I even doing here? I have a fucking motorcycle license in the United States, where they’ve somehow overcome the great engineering feat that is building a fucking road that fucking makes sense. And they also have something else in my home country: fucking sunshine. Why in the Great Fuck was I bleeding money to jump through the biggest bullshit hoops ever devised so I can scrabble through the fucking wet and cold of this fucking mouldy rock of a country?
And on and on and on like that for the next several days. I felt so defeated, so upset. And ready to give up.