Think of all the firsts you experienced the year you started riding. There's the thrill of your first ride in the rain. What about entering the parking lot at a biker gathering spot on your own wheels? (My first was Marcus Dairy in Connecticut.) Remember your first swerve around an obstacle? How about the first time you hit an unexpected pothole or your tires slipped a little in a corner, just as you were getting cocky and thinking you and your bike were a single unit, only to be reminded that the two of you are very separate entities. My virgin tipover occurred in Meridian, Mississippi, after a panfried catfish dinner. Humming a bluegrass song to myself, I took a right turn, only a block from the restaurant, and ended up on the ground. The result was a bruised hip, a broken brake pedal and a reason to look for the town on a map every time I pass through Mississippi.