Doing My Test at 55 - A One Split Second Story

I've liked motorcycles since I was a kid. Growing up in the era of Barry Sheene, it was hard not to. But when I reached riding age, I made a decision that probably saved my life — I didn't get on a bike.

I was too hot-headed. Too impulsive. I genuinely don't think I understood what a brake pedal was for. Honestly? I would have killed myself.

So, thirty years passed.

Over those years I made a lot of motorcycling friends, and slowly the passion started creeping back. But between liking the idea of riding again and actually booking my test, there was another eight years of procrastination — held together by excuses and gently encouraged along by friends who had their own unique motivational technique: taking the mick, constantly.

The real reason I kept stalling wasn't the bike. It was fear. Not fear of riding — fear of failing. Fear of something new. Fear of the self-doubt that runs through my head every single day.

For three years running, my friends organised a motorcycle holiday. The rules were simple: you ride, you carry everything you need. And every year, they scheduled it on my birthday. Every year, I couldn't go because I hadn't passed my test. It was uncomfortable. It was deliberate. And eventually, it worked.

I'd said I was going to do it before. Nobody believed me — including, if I'm honest, me.

But this time felt different. I'd genuinely made the decision. I started putting money into the holiday fund before I'd even booked a lesson. I paid my deposit to the bike school. There was no backing out.

September 2025, lessons began. I was apprehensive, wobbly (I'm quite top-heavy, which didn't help), but I actually loved being on the bike. The problem was me — I'm a perfectionist, and I scrutinised every single mistake. Every wobble, every fumbled junction.

If you're heading into your test, hear this: don't do that. You are allowed to make mistakes. That's what training is for.

One thing I wasn't prepared for was how confusing the whole process is to navigate. What bikes you can ride, when, at what age, which route is right for you — it's a minefield. Even going to the right sources left me scratching my head.

I'd love to say there's a simple answer. There isn't, but hopefully what I share here helps someone cut through it a little faster than I did.

My CBT training went well in the grounds of the training centre. The moment we headed out on the road, the stress went up a notch. My advice: get really comfortable on the bike before that happens. I was still fumbling junctions when we went for the assessment, but we got through it and passed.

My one honest criticism of the CBT process is that I hadn't ridden above 30mph before heading out on open roads. The open road is the whole point of having a motorcycle — and it was genuinely my weakest area going into Mod 1.

Speaking of which — Mod 1, attempt one: raining. My summer gloves were soaked through inside ten minutes, and it absolutely affected my control of the bike. I failed — not on the U-turn that catches so many people out, but on a silly foot-down in the slalom. Something I'd never got wrong before.

Lesson learned: get the right gear. Waterproof gloves. Waterproofs, full stop. It isn't just comfort — it genuinely affects your ability to ride.

Second attempt: passed. Same rain, better gloves, completely different experience.

By the time Mod 2 came around I still didn't feel like a motorcyclist. I hadn't got nearly enough open road time between lessons.

February brought more rain (obviously), and a rookie error — I left my t-shirt untucked and it wicked moisture up inside my jacket the entire ride. At least my hands were dry.

The bike itself was misfiring on acceleration and juddering on deceleration. Genuinely off-putting. But looking back, there was an odd upside — I was so focused on managing the bike that the usual negative thoughts didn't have much room to creep in.

At one point I was convinced I'd failed. I was struggling to get the bike up to speed, second-guessing every decision. But I kept going. That's the only advice I can give anyone in that position: keep going. Never pull the pin just because you think it's over.

Back at the test centre, I told my instructor about the bike problems and that I thought I'd failed.

I hadn't. I passed — 10 minor faults, mostly for speed and a couple of positioning decisions. Nothing I was ashamed of.

They told me to ride the 20-odd miles back to the bike school on my own. No instructor's voice in my ear. No one telling me what to do next.

It was the weirdest, best feeling. Every decision was mine. I loved every minute of it.

(Except the rain. I'll never love the rain)

Passing your test isn't the finish line — it's the starting pistol. I still struggle with confidence at higher speeds, still working on trusting the bike and trusting myself. My next step is looking at advanced rider courses to build on that.

The real learning starts now: from experience, from peers, and from the One Split Second community. If you're somewhere in the middle of this journey — nervous, doubting yourself, finding excuses — I get it. I was there for eight years.

The only thing that changes it is making the decision. Actually making it.

Ride Safe, J - One Split Second