When you are new to motorcycle riding, as I am, after a hiatus of 29 years, there are many things you do for the first time. The first time you sit on your bike and imagine yourself cruising down the blacktop. The first time it springs to life as you touch the starter.

There is the first time you pull out onto the street and glide to the stop sign. The first time you kill it at the stop sign because you are chicken to give it gas when you let out the clutch. I recall the first time it almost shot out from under me when I "flicked the wrist" a little too far, too fast. There is the first time your wife sees it, (which hopefully isn't the last.) There is the first time your kids see it. "Yeah dad, cool."

There is the first tank of gas you put in it. Therein lies the heart of this tale.

One of the first times my younger brother, Calvin, and I went out riding, he told me his first tank of gas story while we were standing around making smartelick remarks and telling jokes. We tend to do that a lot. It drives my mom crazy. I imagine that at the time he told me I thought, "Boy, Calvin, that was pretty stupid."

Do you remember the phrase people used to say to you, "Make your words sweet and tender for tomorrow you may have to eat them?" Bear that in mind as you read on. Remember, I didn't actually say it was stupid to Calvin, I just probably thought it, so I am covered, at least until Calvin reads this story.

It seems Calvin had just gotten his bike, a Honda CS650. It was his first bike and he was as green then as I am now. (Pretty green.) He was cruisin' around town for a few days until all of a sudden it just stopped. He cranked and cranked but couldn't get it started. Fortunately, he was about five blocks from a good friend's house so he pushed that heavy 650 those five blocks and asked for some help. His friend came out and listened to his story, reached over and flicked a lever, touched the starter and the bike roared to life. That is what is called a teachable moment. He had Calvin's complete attention when he explained about the fuel switch and what a reserve tank was.

As Calvin told the story, he chuckled. I chuckled as I heard it and made a mental note that somewhere on my bike was a lever that turned on a reserve tank, a term I had not run across before. I am a guy, so of course I could not ask Calvin to point it out.

Calvin and I went on our first ride together, about 45 miles. I had filled my tank, for the first time, with just under two gallons of gas. The next day was such a beautiful day, that I went out riding again and put on about fifty miles when all of a sudden I felt a sudden loss of power. It was the first time I had felt that feeling while riding this bike. I pulled down on the throttle but nothing happened. The engine began to sputter and I down-shifted. I cranked down again but nothing. I slowly braked to a stop and the engine died. I was about eight miles from the nearest town and about fifteen miles from home. It was me, a novice rider, all alone on his second ride ever, and a bike that had suddenly become very complicated.

I noticed all these little parts and dozens of wires going all over and thought, "Man, it could be any one of those things, and I haven't the faintest idea what is wrong."

I let the bike sit for about ten minutes. When you don't know what to do, letting it sit is always a good start. Each time a car would go by I would look busy or bored so someone wouldn't stop to ask, "what's wrong?" I'd have to say, "Well, is was going vrrooom and now it's not." That's about as technical as I could get.

After I let the bike sit, I tried the starter and it roared to life. "All right! Let's go," I thought. Off I went...for about a mile and the whole routine repeated itself. After setting for another ten minutes, off I went again...for another mile. This time I pulled off the road onto a side road. I was sure this bike was a lemon and I was getting repaid by someone for getting such a good deal on it.

Now, I would have been in real trouble, being about a dozen miles from home with a dead bike, but since this story takes place today and not ten years ago, I happened to have a cell phone in my pocket. I pondered the situation and thought I might have to have someone come out with a trailer and tow me home. So I dialed my brother's number. He sympathized with my problem, but no, he didn't know anyone with a motorcycle trailer.

So I dialed my friend Pat, who knows everything there is to know about motorcycles. He really couldn't tell much from my description. Have you ever tried to describe something you don't know anything about? However, he did suggest that I try running it on reserve and see if I could get it back to town. From what I said, it sounded like something in the fuel line and he would look at it when I got back. So I flipped the fuel lever to reserve and thought, in my simple, non-technical and non-understanding way, if there is something in the fuel line that is restricting the flow, if I go slow enough maybe I'll use just enough fuel to keep the bike going and get home. And sure enough, if I went about 25 miles per hour or less, I could keep the bike going. In retrospect, I didn't even try to go faster.

Eventually I did reach home. Pat had me bring the bike across the street to his house and we started the hunt for the mysterious problem. His first stop on the troubleshooting search was the gas tank. He took one look and laughed. "You're out of gas," he said. I looked in and could see a tiny amount sloshing back and forth. Pat then patiently explained how a reserve system works on a bike and instructed me to go to the station and fill it up. I could see him shaking his head and chuckling as I pulled away.

It was on the way back from the station that Calvin's first tank story came back to me. I thought, "maybe it's hereditary." I looked at the trip odometer and noticed that it was a few miles over 100. So I get about 100 miles to a tank. I made a big mental note to myself, one I haven't forgotten. You always remember your first time.