Lead By Example: The Riders We Become, The Riders We Create

A thought that’s been rolling around in my head lately is that old line: “If you can’t lead from the front, lead by example.” I’m pretty sure a corporal threw that at me once, and it stuck. Back then, it had nothing to do with motorcycling, but the older I get, the more I realise it applies to almost everything — especially riding.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. My brain is still finding its footing after surviving 2025, and with the way the motorcycling community has been heading in 2026, that “lead by example” line has been stuck in my head like a thorn. It keeps making me ask: what examples are we actually setting as riders? Which ones are we following? Which ones are we passing on? And which ones shaped us long before we even realised it?

This whole word salad started after a camping weekend with my best mate, Caine. I met him years ago when he posted online looking for a learner supervisor, and we’ve been mates ever since. He’s a good bloke, and his riding is what it should be — confident, capable, calm. Not perfect, but no rider is. What matters is that he learned by watching me ride and listening to me babble on about motorcycling from my perspective. I didn’t “teach” him much. He learned by example.

And that’s what’s got me picking at this “lead by example” thorn tonight. Because the examples most riders have access to today aren’t the ones that help you build a long life on a motorcycle. High risk is sold as cool, consequences are hidden, and the attitudes being pushed are completely wrong for anyone who wants to ride into old age.

To be fair, the example I grew up with wasn’t perfect either. My dad taught me precision, technique, how to understand the bike, how to feel what it was telling me, how to brake properly, how to shift properly — all the good stuff. He taught me how to fix the bike, too. He did an amazing job. But I also grew up listening to his stories from his younger days — fast riding, dangerous riding, riding with no regard for the law or safety. And when you’re young and obsessed with motorcycles, those stories are cool as hell. That was the example I carried with me when I got my licence.

Even today, post‑accident, when I ride with my dad, things can still get a bit spicy. Neither of us is perfect. My first ride after the accident, with my v1.0 arm, was borderline “lose the other arm” territory. Funny how that works — both of us intimately aware of what happens when you ride a certain way, yet still riding that way. But in the six years since that first ride, a lot has changed. We’re both older, slower, and the echoes of all the research I did while designing the arm never really left my head.

That research — the crash studies, the biomechanics, the physics of what happens when a body hits the road — became my new “lead by example” after the accident. I spent a lot of time watching crash videos and reading research papers about what actually happens when you come off a bike. It wasn’t fun, but it changed me.

Then there was Q‑Ride. People love to criticise it, and I’m not saying it’s perfect, but I got a lot out of it. Before I did my pre‑learner course, all I’d done was slow‑speed practice. I still love that stuff, and I still practise it on every bike I own. When you get slow‑speed control sorted, it takes so much of the static and stress out of riding.

Q‑Ride works when you get the right instructor. I was lucky — I had Brett. He had the skills, the communication, and the patience to fight through my bad habits and help me adapt everything to one arm. Beyond that, he was someone you could have genuinely insightful conversations with about road safety and rider behaviour.

Brett’s example set the standard for how I try to lead by example now, especially with learner riders. I want to pass on skills, but not just the actions — the purpose behind them. Skills matter, but attitude matters more. The right attitude keeps you within the limits of your skills. The right attitude keeps you out of trouble with the law and the wider community. The right attitude keeps you out of the hospital.

And that brings me back to the examples young riders are getting today. The internet is full of “examples” — and they’re the thorn. Kids watch some internet hero riding in a way nobody should be riding. It’s glorified. It gets clout. It gets attention. But the message underneath it is completely wrong for anyone who wants to ride long‑term. You only see the highlights — the best of fifteen takes. You don’t see the screw‑ups, the injuries, the damage, or the lack of actual skill behind some of it. And it’s always wrapped in some edgy caption to make it look even cooler. It’s not even a real example, and it’s still a bad one.

Kids and new riders eat that stuff up. They buy the bike and chase the clout without thinking about the risks or consequences, because they don’t see them. And even if they were shown the consequences, I doubt many young riders — especially young men — would fully understand them. Some of us, myself included, only learn through pain. But I honestly believe that a shift in attitudes toward risk and consequences will only come from the motorcycling community providing better examples.

We all arrive at motorcycles with some kind of attitude. It’s the examples we follow that shape that attitude as we go deeper into riding. And that’s what all of this is about for me. I want a shift in attitudes — in riders, in the motorcycle community, and in the wider community. I don’t think flashy ad campaigns, tougher laws or more restrictions will fix anything. We need a cultural shift, and that starts with the examples we set.

I don’t have sway over the whole motorcycling community. All I can do is maintain my own skills and set a good example when I’m out riding — especially when I’m with learners or new riders. Not to baby them or turn every ride into a lesson, but to find the balance between fun and safety within their limits. On paper, it sounds like I’m not “riding my own ride,” but when you’re around learners, you have to find their comfort zone and ride in it with them. Don’t push them out of it. Let them grow. Guide them while they do.

That’s what’s worked for me.

The Habit of Questioning My Own Riding

I had a great weekend on the bike.  I got out alone, had some fun out at Koumala Range, then took a ride with a good mate of mine.

The run at Koumala rattled out a few honest thoughts, and I felt I needed to share.  I do some of my best thinking when I’m out on the bike, especially when I’m out by myself.  I’ve been hooked up in the state of motorcycling in Queensland, and the way things are locally in my town.  Riders out my way, some riders out my way, are stressing the locals out with the way they’ve been riding.  And, I’m still a bit raw over the number of motorcycle fatalities Easter this year.  If you stand back and look, 2026 has seen plenty of us riders wipe ourselves out, and I wonder how many more were left with permanent disability, or in financial ruin due to loss of employment, or simply loss of license.  I can see why many more experienced riders, or those with their finger on the pulse of motorcycle safety, appear a little apathetic.  We don’t seem to be getting the message.  At the same time, we keep sending a message to the wider community that we don’t care, or at worst, we’re sending a message that we, as riders, need more policing/intervention and controls.

The ride I took out at Koumala Range this weekend nearly ended badly for me four separate times. And it rattled out some thoughts I wanted to share.  Not a new thought, just a habit I’ve gotten into when I ride to realign my perspective when my riding starts steering toward the boundaries of safety or my own personal limits.  Like I said, not a new thought, more a thought I have been trying to run as a personal habit to get myself back in the right mindset - the mindset that will see me riding longer and well into my old age.

Bush turkeys can't fly real well.  The one that hovered/bounced/half flew across the road while I was mid-corner, mid-stupid riding, was my first subtle warning.  I can't lie, it startled me, sure, I held my line and kept riding. However, it was a large enough jolt to my system to start eating away at my focus.  Then this series of questions entered my mind, jumbled with the other thoughts shaken loose by a near bird strike.

I pushed those thoughts to the corner, clawing back some focus.  This was my weekend ride, dammit, I was going to keep having fun.  Free time is a precious commodity.  And thoughts be damned, I kept riding.

My next warning was the hillbilly Tokyo drifting his Yaris into my lane a few runs later.  Bird strike, then a near miss with a guy who was probably thinking something similar to me - just having fun, “not hurting anyone” by giving his car the belt through some curves.  Those thoughts came back pretty quickly, heavier, and harder to push away.  A Yaris being heavier than a bush turkey.  It’s MY weekend, though, so I kept riding, gathering up my scattered focus and finding my groove again.

Two more warnings - prompts - came after, and I decided to call it quits before I got turned into bits.  Two almost identical mid-sized buses (both towing trailers) crossed over into my lane mid-corner.  Mid blind corner from my direction.  Both times, I’m kicked over scrubbing off the edges of my tyres, just starting to open the throttle for an early hard exit, and I’m greeted with Bus McBusface.

I’m not angry about it, like most riders would be.  Yeah, everyone was in the wrong (except the bush turkey)- me, Yaris guy and the two bus drivers.  I could have chased them down, gotten mad, kicked some mirrors off, or anything else most other riders might do.

By then, though, I’d taken the hint; I needed to pack it in and take a gentle ride home and let those thoughts come back so I could take a better look at them.

I keep calling them “thoughts”, but they’re a bunch of questions.  These are questions I’ve gotten into the habit of asking myself, usually immediately after I’ve ridden in a way that could see me lose my other arm or my license.  I’m not a perfect rider, and I’m in no position to lecture or criticise any other rider, other than myself.  I am trying to be a better rider, though. I genuinely want to ride bikes right up until they pry the bike from under me and put me in a nursing home.  So, the amount of “stupid” that leaks out when I ride needs to be controlled so it just doesn't happen anymore.

And that's what these questions I ask myself are supposed to do.

WHY - Why did I just do that [insert stupid riding behaviour here]?
What was I trying to achieve?
What was I trying to communicate?
Who was I trying to impress?
Who was I trying to send a message to?
Which feeling was I chasing by riding like that?

I take the effort not to bulshit myself when I answer these questions either.  I’ll keep my answers to myself, and I think most riders would do the same.  Once my ego's done struggling to justify the answers to those questions, I’ll ask myself if that riding behaviour was effective.

Did I get what I wanted?
Did the reward land like I’d hoped it would?
How long did the feeling last?

Did that burst of stupid riding get the validation I was chasing?  Validation from who?  Is the validation of [insert person/group/road user] worth it to me?  Was the way I rode some form of message to someone else, and was it an effective message - did the message even land?

I’m trying to get my brain to do the maths here - the economics of risk versus reward.  The risks of riding a bike on public roads are already pretty high; add a dash of stupidity, and the risks increase exponentially.  And if I’m riding to send a message to other road users, I need only watch a few videos of Dashcams Australia to realise most of the other road users can't read simple words like “stop” and “no entry”.  So, me taking risks to communicate something is bad economics.

Was I riding to impress someone?  Who are they?  Am I riding to impress faceless people for fake internet points?  Will they be there when I crash, and beside me while I rebuild myself?  More than likely, no, no, they won't be.  So, again, that's bad economics.

The big question here is - was it worth it?  Three seconds of adrenaline is a fair trade for the physical ability to ride bikes?  Losing your license (and the fallout from that) is worth it for a few internet points?  Did those ten seconds of attention from a faceless crowd really fill the void you’re trying to fill?

I dont want to hear your answers, I’m not sharing mine, and I dont think any rider has to share.  The questions should be asked in the space inside your helmet where you are most honest with yourself.  You might not like the answers you give yourself, especially as the answers become more and more honest over time.  Small adjustments start to appear as the answers evolve.

Pro-tip: Want to get good, clear, honest answers from yourself? Go for a ride by yourself.  Group rides, even a ride with a mate, will give biased answers.  Assuming you can get a clear enough moment in your helmet to question yourself properly.

I am honestly making small adjustments to my riding.  Again, because I want to ride bikes right up until I can't anymore. The adjustments I have made are driven by the risk versus reward economics of my current life - I have a lot of people relying on me.  Without me, or without me in operating condition, they’d struggle.  It's changed who I ride with as much as how I ride; it's changed the purpose of my riding from seeking validation or approval to riding to find clarity and explore the world through the perspective from inside my helmet.

I’m not trying to change anyone’s riding.  I’m trying to change the way we think before and after we ride.

Community

There are few things I love more than motorcycles and riding - I plan to be riding bikes for as long as I can safely.  All riders, I believe, feel the same.  We all have our people: a big group, a small crew, maybe just one or two mates. It doesn’t matter. Once you’re on the bike, the world feels better even if it's only for a short while.

When you ride alone, your world becomes whatever fits inside your helmet. When you ride with others, your world is just your group—a moving bubble of noise, trust, and momentum. Everything else fades away. The houses, families, and people outside that bubble barely register.

Group riding is tribal.
There are leaders and followers.
There’s hierarchy.
The pace, the tone, and the attitude all come from the rider leading the group.

When you’re in that space, any outside criticism feels like a direct attack on you, your mates, and your identity. And as riders who already feel the world is against us, we react.

Some riders kick mirrors.
Some intimidate drivers.
Some jump online to antagonise locals who complain about the noise or behaviour.

Here’s the thing I want riders to hear:

You’re not riding in a vacuum.
You’re riding in a community.
If we want things to improve — we owe the community respect.

We are ALL ambassadors for the riding community.

The people in the houses we pass, the drivers we share the road with, the locals who hear us at night — they’re the ones who end up shaping the world we ride in. Their perception becomes our reality. Their complaints become crackdowns. Their frustration becomes legislation. Their fear becomes restrictions.

A few riders behaving badly paint a target on all of us. We inherit each other’s consequences. When complaints roll in, no one cares if it’s you or your bike type—we’re all lumped together as ‘motorcyclists.’ Saying, "I don’t ride like that,” doesn’t matter. The wider community puts us in one pile.

The wider community isn’t impressed by noise, risky riding, or attitude. Attacking locals who complain about your behaviour doesn’t help anyone. Antagonising people, whether on the road or online, just makes things worse for all riders.

If your riding is getting complaints, take a moment to think about the long‑term consequences. And if you know someone who’s dragging the image of riders through the mud, pull them aside and have a quiet word. At the very least, lead by example.

Your Tribe Won’t Save You — The Community Will.

And here’s the part a lot of riders don’t think about: if it all goes to shit while you’re out there taking risks or being a pain in the arse, you don’t crash in your little riding bubble — you crash in a community. The “tribe” you were part of five seconds earlier dissolves instantly when things go sideways. The noise stops, the adrenaline drops, and suddenly you’re lying on the road relying on the very people you’ve been pissing off.

It’s the resident who runs out of their house with a towel.
It’s the driver who blocks traffic so you don’t get hit again.
It’s the stranger who calls the ambulance.
It’s the paramedics, the firies, the cops, the doctors — all members of the same wider community you’ve been antagonising online or intimidating on the road.

Every time you send the message that “motorcycle riders are dickheads,” you’re eroding the goodwill of the people who might one day be picking you up off the asphalt. You’re eating away at the community’s desire to care, to help, and to see riders as human beings rather than problems.

A Culture We Protect Together

This isn’t about being perfect. It’s about looking after each other. If we don’t check ourselves, consequences fall on all of us—not just the one acting out.

Half of this is safety.
Keeping your mates riding.
Keeping them alive.
Keeping them from losing their licence or their bike because they got caught doing something they didn’t need to be doing in the first place. Every rider knows someone who pushed it too far and paid for it. If you can stop that from happening to a mate — or to yourself — why wouldn’t you?

The other half is the long game.
Look three to five years down the track.
If the wider community keeps getting pissed off, the government will eventually step in. And when they do, they won’t separate the careful riders from the reckless ones. They’ll just pile on restrictions across the board. More rules. More fines. More limits. Less freedom. That’s the direction we’re heading if we don’t sort this out ourselves.

And then there’s the part no one likes to think about:

When it all goes wrong, it’s the community that saves you.

Not your riding tribe.
Not the loudmouth in the comments.
Not the bloke egging you on.

It’s the resident who runs out with a towel.
It's the driver who stops traffic.
It’s the stranger who calls the ambulance.
It’s the paramedics, the firies, the cops, the doctors — all the people you might have annoyed the night before.

So don’t poison the well you’ll one day need to drink from.

Call each other out.
Lead by example.
Pull your mate aside when he’s being a dickhead.
Isolate the behaviour that drags the rest of us down.
Encourage the behaviour that keeps riders alive, respected, and on the road.

We ride in a community.
We rely on that community.
And we shape how that community sees us every time we fire up a bike.

If we want motorcycling to stay free, respected, and worth fighting for, then the responsibility starts with us. Riders need to look after each other, not just for skills and safety but for how we present ourselves to the wider community.

Going to my happy place

Everyone has a place they like to take their bike for a ride, a ride where they can go a little quicker than usual or just have fun.  A good road somewhere full of curves and turns, or maybe it's just a big straight line.  It's different for everyone, and that's cool.  I take my bikes to Koumala range.  It's tight with lots of turns, a nice road surface, and it's not fast, no long straights, it's all about getting the bike to turn.  That's the sort of riding I enjoy.  You could, if you wanted to, ride this place fast, but it's a long way from help, and sometimes riding fast can end in you needing help.

My golden rule, above all else, is I do this ride ALONE.  Strictly alone.

I’ve found that riding with others tends to trick you into riding at their limits, not your own.  I’m getting better at avoiding this trick; I’m usually very good at not trying to keep up.  I ride this place alone because I don’t want anybody trying to keep up with me.  Not because I’m some kind of professional, but because there are some riders who try extra hard when they see a one-armed rider doing what they do with two - especially if I’m doing it better than them.  If you find yourself in a group of riders pushing their limits and feel unsafe, just pull over and offer to take photos.  It's tempting, I get it, to push yourself, and I don’t want to stop you; I just want to give you an “out” if you need one.

If you have that “place” where you ride, to maybe slowly push a limit, or get a good buzz, try going there alone and just enjoying the ride yourself with as few influences as you can. You might enjoy it more.

Getting wet without the tech.

If it's raining, I purposefully take my old TRX 850 to Koumala range.  The wetter the better on that old tank.  For those who dont know, the TRX has no ABS or traction control.  No tech.  Just you and the meat between your ears to keep the bike on the road.  This is not for everyone, and that's fine.  My TRX has GOOD tyres, and I give the bike a more thorough-than-usual pre-ride check, ensuring tyre pressures, brakes, and suspension are all 100% ready.  Every bike is different. Heck, every bike of the exact same make and model can be different - different enough to make a big difference in a situation where a little difference puts an end to a fun ride.  TLDR; set YOUR bike up so it's right for you and how and where you ride.

The first few runs, in the wet on the Rex (TRX), are still tense, you’re fighting all those fears of riding in the wet - accelerating slowly, tentatively, and braking oh so gently into turns, afraid you’ll lose the front.  But the more time I spent on the bike in those conditions, the more my confidence built. You start to relax, the power comes on earlier and earlier, the braking becomes harder and harder, and the braking distances start to shrink and shrink.  Before you know it, it's like the water isn't even there.

Conversely, eventually your confidence curve and the performance curves of the tyres intersect, and you’re given a gentle reminder it's time to go home when the rear drifts a little too wide, or the front starts to fold under brakes.  But, by then, your pants are starting to soak through, and you’re keen to get dry anyway.

It all sounds spooky or reckless, but I see it as controlled exposure therapy.  And, if I could choose the message here, it would be preparation, preparation for riding in adverse conditions isn't optional.  Check your bike, maintain those skills, and keep your confidence levels honest and accurate.

Neutral runs - no brakes, one arm

This is just for me here.  Dont try this at home.  Once I’ve gotten settled and have ridden the range a few times, I do what I call a “neutral run” - at the top of the range, I build enough speed, then put the bike into neutral and roll all the way down.... but, I do it without using the brakes.  Sounds terrifying, doesn't it? But, in reality, it isn't, as the speeds on the way down (just rolling) at their peak are quite slow.

For me, this is about building confidence in how well I steer the bike and how well the bike lets me steer.  There are no other influences; just you, the bike and gravity.  That whole “looking where you want to go” thing becomes a little easier to dial in; your body position and how you move on the bike soon become more fluid and natural.  Above all, you learn to trust the bike.

Once I’ve done a few good, clean, smooth neutral runs, I’ll do more than a few using just one arm - my prosthetic arm alone.  This is to improve the connection and feedback between me and the arm, build strength in the little muscle I do have, and dial in the arm's settings.  The neutral runs down, using only the prosthetic forces, has me USE the arm to load it up and get comfortable with the forces and feedback involved in steering the bike. That fancy Float shock in the arm has knobs and dials to fiddle with, and these runs really help to get those settlings right.

Why these rides matter to me

Koumala Range is where I go to:

• refine my skills

• maintain my confidence

• maintain my physical capability

• test and tune my prosthetic arm

• push myself without ego

• ride without comparison

• learn without pressure

• To blow off some steam (leak a little bit of stupid) because I am still very human

It’s where I go to stay sharp.  To stay honest.  To stay connected to the rider I’ve become, not the rider I used to be.

Every run up and down that range is a reminder that riding isn’t just about speed or skill.
It’s about self‑awareness, discipline, and deliberate practice.

And for me, it’s about proving — quietly and privately — that I can still do this.
Not for anyone else.  Just for me.

Learning to Ride: Three Chapters on Two Wheels

Looking back at how I learned to ride, it feels like I’ve lived through three separate chapters. Each version of myself thought he had it all figured out, only to be proven wrong. It’s funny now, but it’s also why I care so much about rider education and don’t believe the usual stories about learning on dirt bikes or racing motocross.

I’ve been through all of it, and I’ve faced the results of thinking that was enough.

Hill Billy riding school

My first riding lessons were just what you’d expect for a kid around bikes: mostly unsupervised, sometimes watched over, but always with care. My dad tried his best, and after a few years tearing around the farm on my old chook chaser, I could ride a motorcycle. But farm riding only teaches the basics like throttle control, balance, and how to crash without admitting it hurts. It doesn’t teach you how to handle traffic or understand risks.

It definitely made me confident, but it also gave me a false sense of skill. That combination can be risky.

I cringe a bit when I hear riders repeat clichés about learning off-road or racing dirt bikes. I’m not saying that experience doesn’t matter—I get wanting to share your riding background—but often it’s outdated, limited, and only partly useful for riding safely and enjoying motorcycles on the road.

To be fair, I was that guy once, too. No judgment.

The Old Licensing System

Back in 1993, getting a motorcycle license in Queensland was simple. There were no requirements beforehand—just a short written test, some basic moves in a car park, and a quick supervised road ride. No one gave detailed feedback; you just had to avoid making big mistakes. There was no focus on hazard perception or how to handle risks on the road.

I was happy with that at the time - didn't care, got my license.

Now I wonder how many other riders got their license the same way, without learning solid skills or how to be safe on the road. Sure, they’re still riding and probably still have both arms, but are they the ones who think every car driver is out to get them? That negative attitude is something we’ve all seen in riding culture.

The Accident and starting again

Fortunately, my brain adapted very quickly to riding one-armed.  It's easy when you don’t have a choice.  So, re-learning was more about putting my new attitude toward riding into play.  That and learning how to operate the bike with only so many fingers; clutch, brake and controls. There were constraints: there was no more farm to ride dirt bikes on, so I had to develop the skills I could in the cul-de-sac out front of my dad's house.  Fortunately, that meant all slow-speed practice and getting comfortable going slow. Fortunately, because at that stage I was still testing with an arm cobbled together from an old broom handle and 3D-printed plastic parts. In the three months of “testing” and all this slow riding, I don’t think I ever went over 40 km/h.  Most riders avoid this stuff, riding slow, but I feel it's the best foundation for riding.  You’ve got to be more in touch with the bike and its controls, and it exposes small weaknesses early before they become big problems once you’re at speed.  If you’re new to learning, it can be humbling at first, but it builds confidence quickly with minimal risk.

The Occupational Therapist, Qride and the great unlearning

This was after my big accident, so it won’t apply to everyone, but before I could move on to motorcycle testing, I had to pass a motorcycle test. This was an OT assessment to check if I could ride safely. They did a medical and physical exam to see if my body could handle it, and a perception test to make sure my mind was ready, all before I could show my riding skills. I was grateful for all the practice I’d put in before this assessment.

Q-ride was 10/10 though.  People who have issues with Q-ride need to think more about other riders more than themselves.  That, and maybe admit that they DID come out of Q-ride just a little bit better than when they walked in.  The benefits of programs like Qride, even to those sceptical of these programs, are that there are MORE riders on the road, and they're safer because of it.  I’m happy to ride the way I ride, and I’m happy to see a rider fresh into it riding safely and within their own limits, enjoying the benefits/outcomes of whatever training they’ve completed.

While going through the Qride system in Queensland, I got rid of a lot of bad habits I had before my accident. Some habits you don’t notice until they cause problems, and sometimes learning a small new skill can make riding much easier or more comfortable.

Unlearning/relearning is much easier when your mind is open to it.  Losing the arm wasn’t the key to opening my mind to training programs like Qride, and while most of my openness to learning came from the research into my arm design, the bulk of it came from the simple enjoyment of riding.  A few seemingly simple skills and the abandonment of some bad habits took a lot of the noise out of the already busy experience of riding a motorcycle.  I get to enjoy the time on the bike a little more.

Like father, like Son?

I was deep into relearning when my son decided to start riding motorcycles. I wasn’t fully licensed yet and was still working on my arm design. I have to admit, I panicked.

Maybe it’s just a dad thing, but my first thought was, “You can’t just decide to ride motorcycles.” I used to think riding should be part of your life before you hit the road with others. That old mindset came back, and suddenly I believed you really did need that ‘I learned to ride on a farm’ experience to be a good rider.

I didn’t hold him back. Instead, I supported him and helped him prepare for his test, even as I was still learning myself. Once he got his license, just a few months after I did, I kept encouraging him to ride with me. Skills matter, but you have to keep practising and building on them. My son will find his own style, but keeping those skills sharp is key to his confidence, passion, and most importantly, his safety.

We’re all still learning.

Every rider learns in their own way, and that’s fine. Roads and risks are always changing, so I’ve found that staying curious and practising often helps me ride with more awareness and confidence. It also makes the ride more enjoyable.

If you’re happy with your progress, that’s up to you. I hope you’ll support others who want to improve at their own pace. Share what you know, learn what’s helpful, and let’s all help each other stay safe.

My first "not a real accident"

Here’s how a dog, gravel, and a cigarette-break lecture put the first small dent in my riding behaviour.  This experience didn't have an immediate effect on how I rode, but I did get my first lesson in “getting back up” after a fall.

First up, let's understand the metric by which I registered motorcycle accidents back then - if I didn't spend the night in the hospital, it's technically NOT an accident. This was my first "not an accident but technically an accident" after getting my license. I no longer use this metric; I’ve had my fill of time in the hospital.

I was riding my bike to school, racing a mate, when I hit a dog.  I remember the dog doing much the same thing as the dog from my 4500km road trip - it was crossing the road, saw me, ran in its original direction before turning and running back across the road.  The sequence in my brain went "oh no, a dog, better slow down" to "it's off the road now, back on the gas" to "ahh fuck" and me colliding with the dog.  I didn't make any directional changes, and I only briefly closed the throttle before accelerating again; no brakes were applied. No caution.  A simple accident to avoid, really, as I had the skills.

And, man, did I get minced up.  I slid down the road, under the bike, for a fair distance. Grinding off layers of skin as I had no protective gear - just shorts, a shirt, sneakers, and a helmet.  I even got some burns from the bike's exhaust to top it all off.  [Insert lecture about wearing proper gear HERE]

Once I stopped sliding and grinding, I got up to assess how bad the situation was - to take in all the pain, and appreciate just how badly I was bleeding.  Fortunately, I crashed outside the homes of some really lovely old ladies.  Unfortunately, they all came running out with hydrogen peroxide and all manner of disinfectants, which they quickly doused my wounds with.  Pain-o-meter went to 11.  But I was pretty grateful for all the care and attention I received at the scene.

Then my Dad turned up.  He didn't call an ambulance or bring first aid.  He brought with him a long and fiery, curse-word-filled lecture about my terrible riding.  I need you to understand that the "lecture" did not stop as he bundled me into his car and took off.  To the hospital?  To an ambulance?  No.  To the corner shop, where he purchased a drink, a packet of cigarettes, a newspaper, and something to eat.  I'm still bleeding this whole time, and I must have smelled like a freshly sanitized science lab from all the chemicals I had been washed down with.  The lecture had not stopped, only brief pauses as he ate and drank, and puffed on a cigarette.  No drink for me. Nothing to eat.  I didn't smoke then, but if smoking clotted my blood a little, I'd have given it a crack.

Even after his impromptu breakfast, the lecture continued.  What was he saying?  I don't know, I was bleeding and fixated on where we were going next when we drove off from the corner shop.  We owned a small farm at this point in life, and I genuinely thought we were off to do a day's work there despite my wounds.

You're all thinking my Dad was a bit hard on me, but he pulled through eventually and took me to the local ambulance station.  The lecture did not stop the entire ride, any more than my bleeding.  When we get to the ambulance station, I'm wheeled into a room for a brief respite from the lecture to have my gravel rash cleaned out.  Pain-o-meter goes to 15!  Maybe they give pain relief nowadays, or maybe my Dad paid extra so they wouldn't, but I do NOT recommend high doses of gravel rash even when you're drunk on hydrogen peroxide and floating down from significant blood loss.

With my wounds freshly brushed and deburred, debrided and bandaged, I was handed back to my Dad.  And the lecture continued, with renewed gusto as he had time to catch his breath.  Normal parents probably let you have a day or two off school with such extensive injuries, or if you couldn't use your hands because they're both fully bandaged.  Not my Dad - he took me straight back to school so I could get some learning in before the day ran out.  I think it was because he'd run out of lecture points.  Either way, I went to school and walked home that day, bandaged, beaten, and bleeding.  The next day, after the bike was beaten back into shape, I rode to school wearing every bit of safety gear I owned.  Gravel rash sucks, do not recommend.
And, my Dad isn't the villain here. He just administered a tough lesson, and I appreciate how tough it was to give.  Tough love.  Accept responsibility for, and the consequences of, your actions.  I mean, it didn’t stop me from doing stupid stuff, but I did learn not stay down when I fall, and I learned that regardless of the work required to get back up, I would.  And that applies to life off the bike also.

PS - the school put up a fight - I had all my arms back then and they were both fully bandaged, as were my legs. I imagine I may have been still in shock also, and getting my two brain cells to swim in a brain low on blood was a challenge.  They asked why I was late. I said, "I was in a bike accident, look at me," and they responded, "We're going to need a note."  I had to sign in, but couldn't use a pen (bandaged hands), so I think they told me not to worry about the note.

Wisdom Is Earned, Not Given

I’m trying to remember a quote I heard recently, but it's gone.  Wisdom is earned, not given - is the best my memory could click with after a Google search.  Essentially, we all know, you can offer someone advice, warnings, crash stories, statistics — but if they’re not ready to hear it, it won’t land. I know that because the rider I used to be wouldn’t have listened either. Not out of disrespect. I just thought I already knew enough. I thought I was skilled enough. I thought consequences were for other people.

And that’s the thing — a lot of riders react badly when someone suggests slowing down or riding more safely. You see it in the comments online: the jokes, the bravado, the dismissals. It’s a defence mechanism. It’s easier to laugh than to look at your own behaviour. It’s easier to protect the identity you’ve built around riding than to admit you might be taking risks you don’t need to take.

I’m not under any illusion that sharing my story will change every rider. I know it won’t. Some riders will read what I write and shrug. Some will roll their eyes. Some will think it doesn’t apply to them. And that’s fine. I get it. I used to be wired the same way.

What I am hoping for is something a bit different.

If my perspective doesn’t reach you, that’s okay — just don’t stand in the way of the riders it does reach. Let them take what they need from it. Let them grow at their own pace. The same way we tell new riders to “ride their own ride,” I think we also need to let riders change their own ride. If someone wants to slow down, ride smoother, or rethink their approach, let them. Don’t drag them back into the mindset you’re in. Don’t mock them for choosing a safer line.  And, dont leave them behind.

Not every rider wants to be the hot‑headed, warp‑speed version of themselves forever. Some of us grow out of it. Some of us don’t. That’s just how it goes.

And if you’ve been riding a long time, you’ve got more influence than you realise. You can lead by example. You can show that skill and safety aren’t opposites. You can show that enjoying the ride doesn’t require proving anything to anyone. You can help create space for new riders to find their own identity on the bike — not the one the loudest voices in the community push onto them.

Side track

One thing that grinds my gears is how often the slower or newer rider gets left behind. A group will take off at the pace of the fastest rider, and the person still finding their feet ends up riding alone or, worse, pushed to ride outside their limits just to keep up. That’s not leadership or cool.  If you’re the hotshot in the group, you need to appreciate the responsibility you have - there are other riders watching you, possibly trying to emulate your behaviour with less skills and less experience.  That, or the rider you left behind rides less, gives up on bikes.  Even worse, they DO try to keep up, and they could end up being an entirely different kind of problem for you.  If we can’t look after the ones coming up behind us, what are we even doing?

Insert my usual disclaimer - I’m not trying to preach. I’m not trying to tell anyone how to ride. I’m just sharing what I’ve learned, knowing full well it won’t land with everyone. But if it helps even a few riders shape their own path — or gives them permission to ride a little more chill — then it’s worth writing.

"Criticism of riding behaviour" ≠ "Criticism of riding ability" (mostly)

It's best to focus on myself - my experience right up until my arm accident.  And, I’ll be honest, I should include my experience in the first two years after getting back on the bike.  This is me doing my best to address a bad habit all riders have: confusing criticism of our riding behaviour with criticism of our riding ability.

I've certainly had somebody say "you ride like a dickhead", heck, I've definitely had a police officer tell me much worse.  Did it sink in?  Obviously no.  Why not? Because whoever said things like that to me was attacking my ability to ride - that's how I saw it.  I didn't hear the message - you're taking unnecessary risks, you're on borrowed time if you continue riding like that.  I heard what they didn’t say: "You have zero skill, you can't ride a motorbike."  Which wasn't true - I could ride a motorcycle pretty well, I mean, I had a pretty awesome scoreboard; 4 police pursuits without capture, incredible "lap times" between two locations, heck, back in the day, I could even do wheelies.  Proper wheelies, that looked cool, I tell ya.  I had skills; I could ride, so anybody implying I couldn't ride or that I rode poorly fell immediately into the "ignore this person" bucket.

I’m always banging on about confusing the willingness to take unnecessary risks with “skill”.  But I think I’m going to start suggesting that some riders confuse the willingness to take unnecessary risks with a way to communicate their self-worth/status/skill to other road users/riders.  

I’m not preaching.  I'm still not a perfect rider, or an ideal human.  But awareness and acceptance are a start, and I've been chipping away at my riding behaviour.  A few things have helped me change the way I ride: realising you don't actually have to ride like a hooligan to enjoy the ride, and who am I actually trying to impress by riding without regard for risk? Am I really teaching the slow car driver a lesson by accelerating by them at warp speed?  Maybe the type of people I want in my life aren't the type who are excited by watching me run around in a hurry to hurt myself.  I’m not sure who you ride with, but I’m pretty sure they’d be sad if you didn’t make it home one day.

Lately, though, I’ve become acutely aware of how my riding behaviour affects public opinion of motorcyclists in general.  There’s a lot in that - if the community continues to see us as “temporary Australians”, what are the potential outcomes?  I can think of a few negative effects on the motorcycling community if we dont start tightening up our behaviour on the road, and I want none of them.  I love riding bikes, and I want to ride them for as long and as often as I can, unhindered by increasingly restrictive laws/costs.  But my big concern is that I want Karen, in her giant 4x4, to see me as a human, not some yutz who has no regard for his own life.  Maybe, just maybe, if the average driver starts thinking  - motorcyclists = humans too -  they might drive with more awareness.

These are the things I think about while I'm riding my bike.