When I first started riding, my friend Lee warned me about getting addicted to speed. I had no idea what she was talking about. My recent rides to and from SF on highway 280 have reminded me that there is a reason for track days. I'm in dire need of one, I've discovered that a baby hooligan lurks within.

I don't consider myself a risk-taker. I dislike people who weave in and out of lanes. I wear full leathers at all times. And what was I doing on 280? Must have been a hormone rush, I have no other explanation. For a few moments, those cars seems like stationary objects on a slalom course. I was cruising at 95 mph and it didn't feel fast. My facial muscles had that toned-but-not-tense quality that indicates concentration-without-worry. When I felt my teeth bare into a grin, I knew I had gone too far.

This weekend I'll be preparing the F3 for a track day on July 31st at Thunderhill.

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On a completely different topic, Honda is going for broke, they are publicly designing a motorcycle with "women in mind". The comment in the article about Italian women not needing lower seat height because they wear high heels even while riding just about killed me. Still, the thought of a shapely woman in a well-fitting set of leathers and a strappy pair of stiletto heels does conjure up a rich image, doesn't it.

It has been too long since I last rode the F3 and I'm nervous about taking it on the track. I've bonded with the Beemer, my body knows where everything is.

Problem: The F3 is a very different bike and in particular, my foot does not know where the shifter is, it has to find it. This means missed shifts.

Solution: Ride the bike in the HP parking lot and get accustomed to it.

Problem: It's time to figure out how to get the bike moving with me on it, without a pit dude or pit babe standing by.

Solution 1. Put a kick stand on the bike for heaven's sake.

Solution 2. Bribe a dear, patient friend with pancakes, maple syrup, and strawberry rhubarb sauce (homemade) to come over and help me figure out how to do it. Beer works for some folks, this fellow likes buckwheat.

Experiment 1. At first he couldn't believe I couldn't just sit on the bike and rock it backwards out of the chock. I smiled to myself, "You just take that upper body for granted, don't you." I showed him that I could stand next to the bike and pull it out of the chock. The difference is that my body is lined up next to the gas tank, instead of behind the gas tank, where I have no leverage at all. I have about a nickel's worth of ground contact due to the seat height.

Experiment 2. My idea was to lean the bike against the garage wall, and then get on it. His eyes narrowed. That means, "I don't like that idea, let's start somewhere else."

Experiment 3. We tried inserting wood blocks into various places on the chock to see if changing the angle of the chock, or the angle of the tire bucket, or the depth of the tire backrest would make it easier for me to pop the bike out. Raising the font of the chock didn't help. The other two attempts had some success, but the bike wasn't stable in the chock, which defeats its purpose.

Experiment 4. With a little trial and a few awkward moments (but no errors) we figured out that the trick was to keep my body's center over the bike's center (the rear third of the gas tank) as I move up, over and onto the bike.

Get ready position: Left hand on the left grip, right hand on the top of the gas tank. Right foot on the ground just in front of the shifter. Look at the tank.

Mount action: Lean chest onto tank, and slowly swing the right leg over the bike, pivoting on the left foot. When right hip and upper leg is centered along the bike's longitudinal line (leg is bent at the knee), move right hand to the right hand grip, squeeze the brake, complete swinging the leg over, rise to a sitting position, and exult!

If you are a member of the riding majority, you are likely wondering what the fuss is. If your leg length has ever given you pause when thinking about what bikes you want to ride, you know what a victory this is. Needing help to get moving on my own bike has felt like having to put a phone book under my seat when learning to drive the family station wagon.

Later in the afternoon, without my friend present, I pulled the bike from the chock, mounted it, and spent a while reacquainting myself with the different riding position, the chest-on-tank option, the heavy clutch, the too-far-back rear sets, and the sound of four cylinders. The bike roars, it wants out of the garage and on to the track. It's not about speed in the parking lot, it's about shimmying around on this beast and learning how to move with it.

Three more days. Karolyn hopes to ride in the A group. I will be in the B group. Dennis, shoulder injury all healed, will be the pit dude. Thunderhill was my first track. I don't remember when I was last on it. This feels like the prodigal daughter going home.