This article is part of the series Recalculating, a 28-day motorcycle journey along the Pacific Northwest coast and through its volcanic landscapes.

I twisted the throttle a couple of times as I pulled into the driveway, just to make some noise.

The garage door was already up. Corey’s wife had been tracking my location the whole drive down from Vancouver, and somehow—despite all our back-and-forth—we’d pulled it off. Corey came around the corner with a look on his face that told me everything: he had no idea I was coming.

Corey is a colleague who’s become a real friend, both inside the office and out. He’s encouraged me on more fronts than I can list, work and otherwise, and he’s become someone I deeply value. He’d been circling motorcycling for a while—we’d talk bikes off and on.

When I stayed with him last week I learned how much closer he was to motorcycling. I already knew I wanted to be there for the start of his riding life. His wife had been encouraging him to get a bike for a while too, so the two of us schemed a little to keep it a surprise. I found the last open slot on the training company’s calendar and registered without telling him.

As is standard operating procedure in the Seattle area, ferries have a hard say in your schedule. We had to catch the 9:25 to make it on time—the instructional email was firm that showing up late meant not getting in. I was also adjusting to a new insulin pump, which meant my morning nerves were less about the bike and more about triple-checking gear: motorcycle stuff, check. Pump, check. Insulin, check. Antihistamine cream. Glucose tablets. An extra syringe, just in case. Seattle’s weather was threatening some rain with a cool breeze already coming up off the water. It wanted its local color in our course too.

He had his jitters. I had mine.

When we got to the course held in a Boeing office parking lot on a Saturday afternoon, everything felt familiar—and one completely different item of note. Five bikes sat in a row, each one a solid learning machine in its own right: a BMW G 310 R, a couple of Suzuki TU250Xs, a Honda XR250L, and, unexpectedly, a Honda Grom. I didn’t expect to see a pocket bike in the lineup. Three different courses spread across the never-ending swath of asphalt with no cars to be found.

The difference was the format. This wasn’t the full Motorcycle Safety Foundation course I’d known in California or back east—it was a Kickstart, run by WMST.

I’ve been asked a thousand times by people wanting to dip a toe into riding: How do I get started?

In California, the answer has always been the full CMSP course administered by the California Highway Patrol. It’s three days, $400, and a real commitment. That’s an easy commitment to make if you’re already sold on motorcycling—but it’s hard to put your toe in the water with that level of investment. I’ll often say you’ll come out a better driver even if you decide it’s not for you, which is true, but it’s not the right educational offering for the audience who’s actually asking me.

Kickstart is that educational offering. It’s a three-hour course that gets you on a bike for $169. You’ll spend an hour or so putting around a parking lot, learning the controls and the basics of riding in a straight line. You even get “leg day” compliments of moving the motorcycle around the cones at the end of each exercise.

Sean, our instructor, gave me a bit of a look when he walked up and found me fully suited in my Aerostich R-3. I explained I was an experienced rider there to support a good friend starting out. He did a double take—not expecting someone with 25 years and hundreds of thousands of miles in the saddle to show up for a Kickstart. As tenured riders with respect for the sport, he understood me instantly.

“You’re here to support Corey?”

“Yep,” I said.

We both knew we were here for the sport and to help new riders start right.

Then he processed my registration and did a second double take.

“Are you a California resident?”

I said yes, half-expecting to get stuck in some Washington residency purgatory. The online system didn’t love my out-of-state license, but it went through with some technical encouragement.

“You came here from California to be in a Kickstart?”

I laughed.

“I came from California to be in your Kickstart.”

His understanding of me deepened rapidly. We both love the sport, want to see others succeed, and put the work in to make it happen.

Sean opened our discussion by asking, “What’s everyone’s dream bike?”

I enjoyed hearing everyone else’s story. We had folks from all over the state of Washington who wanted to do all different things in their motorcycling future—some sport bikes, some cruisers. I liked seeing that spread of students, all pointed toward a two-wheeled future. I laughed when I realized my dream bike, a Honda XR650L, had its younger 250cc brother sitting right across the lot from me.

Sean coached us through the basics from there—the pre-ride inspection with T-CLOCS: tires and wheels, controls, lights and electrics, oil and other fluids, chassis, and stands. We went over each control on the motorcycle, how cars differ from motorcycles, how to prepare for a ride, and how to read hazards.

Corey was nervous going in, but the second he saw the bikes waiting for us, the excitement took over. I didn’t get to watch him ride much once we were out on the range—the instructors want your eyes down the lane, the bikes didn’t have mirrors, and I didn’t need to hang back every pass just to check on him. I was a student that morning too, the same as everyone else was.

Every so often, I’d lean over, catch his eye, and smile. Each pass down the parking lot, I could see his excitement and his skills building.

By the end of the course, Kickstart had done exactly what it’s built to do. Corey wasn’t wondering anymore whether he wanted to ride.

He knew.

He’s already looking at moving up the date for his beginner permit course, trying to get it in before the Washington riding season gives way to a wet winter. Plus WMST includes the Champ U: New Rider from the Yamaha Champions Riding School online for free in the $369 tuition. WOW! Wished we had that in California. Corey is already a few chapters in to the Yamaha course. We spoke about trail braking, a fairly technical concept on a new rider’s journey.

Sean was a great teacher—no surprise once I learned that during the week he teaches English, history, and literature to at-risk high schoolers. He met each of us where we were at in our journey, even me, right there in the context of the course. He’s an insightful and personable educator. Thank you, Sean.

So why was an experienced rider taking a Kickstart?

I got to share my friend’s first mile on a bike.

We went bike shopping right after class. Now that Corey had been on a bike, he wanted to sit on all the bikes: sport bikes, adventure bikes, scramblers, standards, and cruisers. He now understood the rider triangle: rider the geometric shape formed by the three points where a rider’s body contacts the bike: the handlebars (hands), the seat (hips), and the footpegs (feet). Then he found his love for the day where the rider triangle clicked: an Indian Scout. Seeing the smile, realization, and excitement all come together in my friend’s eyes was truly a moment for me.

I’ve had a lot of people help me get to twenty-five years and a quarter-million miles—mechanics who explained things twice, riders who slowed down so I could keep up, and friends who loaned me tools before I owned my own. Showing up for Corey’s first mile felt like the way the motorcycling community showed up for me. Good riders beget good riders. Motorcycling is as much culture as it is sport.

If you’re an experienced rider and a friend is curious, go take the course with them. You don’t have to teach them anything. Just be there when they find the friction zone—and the smile that follows.

Thank you, Corey, for letting me come along. Thank you Sean for the reminder to keep the chin bar down. That’s stayed with me heading south.