Exploring life on a Vespa, Royal Enfield Himalayan, Honda Trail 125, and a Kawasaki W650
I quick note while downing a cup of lunchtime tea. This evening I’m supposed to be heading out on a BMW K1600 GT. The transition from the Vespa to a motorcycle is always sort of strange. This one will prove to be a bigger leap than usual. To help relax into it I looked to YouTube for some vicarious experience. About half way through you can see the motorcycle on the road. Looks like it handles as well as my Vespa.
I’ll let you know what I think.
There’s nothing unusual about heading to the convenience store for some chocolate to go with my late night cup of tea. A short ride, nice night air, a satisfying experience. Seeing my reflection in the front doors though had me asking what sort of rider I was.
Not long ago I watched a guy ride up on a big Victory touring bike. The motorcycle sparkled and the black leather fringe hanging from the hand grips matched his dazzling leather riding suit. Boots, helmet, gloves, everything was selected with care. He could have stepped out of a catalog.
So here I am standing in front of the doors looking at my reflection. Unshaven, messed up hair. Short, black and yellow Triumph vented riding jacket, unwashed since I bought it in 2006. Hanging out from under is the shirt tail of the beat up red flannel shirt I was wearing all day while working in the garden. My eyes look down past my filthy jeans to a pair of mud crusted boots. Some riders dress like pirates, others don their Aerostich gear, while others assume the careful attire of a variety of riding styles. Me on the other hand, I’ve completely dropped the ball. A derelict has just ridden up on a Vespa.
Grabbed a couple Hershey bars while mincing through the store trying to minimize the amount of mud shedding from my boots. I’m not sure I’ve every seen a muddy, unkempt rider who wasn’t associated with a dirt bike. Perhaps I lead a sheltered life.
And don’t ask why as the clock neared midnight I was still in such a sorry state.
The next morning all was well with the world. The sun was out and so was I — this time clean and in my traditional riding clothes. A quick stop at the local quarry for a picture as I tried to figure out where to go and what to do. Being Mother’s Day I couldn’t wander far being a good husband and son-in-law.
So breakfast is always a good choice. Time to think. A scrap of paper on the table had the words AAUW Used Booksale scribbled on it. Perfect. A serendipitous revelation. You never can have too many books right?
Arrived early on the second morning of the sale and didn’t expect to find any treasures. Wrong as usual. Found three gems for Kim to add to her Mother’s Day loot. And a nice hardback edition of Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness for my daughter. She likes travel books. What could be a better choice?
This is a story about what goes through a rider’s mind when their throttle freezes. On a Sunday morning awhile back I planned to ride into town to meet BMW rider Dan Leri at Saint’s Cafe. The frost on the car and truck reminded me the temperature was still dropping below freezing and that I should pay close attention to the road. And I worried a bit about Dan on his 1150 RT but more on that in a bit.
Dan wears a lot of hats in addition to a helmet. He’s the director of Innovation Park at Penn State, a father and husband, and somewhere in his past a member of one of Joe Paterno’s Nittany Lion teams. All this was of interest as I parked the Vespa in the pre-dawn light of State College, Pennsylvania where I was going to learn from Dan what goes through your head when your throttle freezes — something he’s recently learned on a ride to work.
It’s not often I arrive at Saint’s before they’re open. Poor planning on my part to have to sit outside in the cold. At least the light was nice for the few minutes I had to wait to get a cup of tea and a bagel.
This is the bike in question — a 2005 (?) BMW 1150 RT. Dan describes it as the perfect machine. It’s the typical conversation with a BMW rider. They speak in a casual, even, measured tone, slowly drawing you into their delusion of performance, reliability, and rides around the world. Eventually their eyes roll back into their heads, English transforms into an ancient Teutonic tongue and sweat beads on their foreheads. At this point it’s best to nod your head politely and let them finish. I think a requirement of ownership of these kinds of motorcycles is to evangelize whenever possible. Dan keeps at me. I recently joined the BMW MOA.
That’s Dan in his Roadcrafter jacket. He is a hi-viz kind of guy.
I was in Denver when a text message arrived on the morning of March 25. It read:
My throttle cable froze solid while passing a truck this morning on I99 on the way to work. Since I was passing, I was going 80mph.
IMPORTANT NOTE TO GRACIE: If you’re reading this you should understand the concept of what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Ask your dad to explain that. Don’t scare your mother with this information.
The message continues:
Fast ride to work! Good thing traffic was spaced out! I eventually shut it off, coasted to a stop, messed until I got a little play in it, then high RPM clutched to Wegmans (grocery store) to get hot water to get it thawed, and down to idle, then let it run to generate engine heat to thaw it. That got me another mile and a refreeze, (it was 18F that morning — yes, Dan’s a serious rider) and a repeat procedure!
You have a lot of funny “now what” thoughts while stuck going 80mph and wanted to get close to help and a solution before shutting down!
So I’m in Denver reading these text messages and the first thing that comes to mind is, “Geez, you tap out a lot of characters for a text message.” Then I think about what I would do — hit the kill switch. As Dan and I talked he said that if he did that he would be a long way from anywhere. Listening to him I realized he was more and more like MacGyver as he described his thought process and plan to ride on as far as he could. If he only had tin foil and some chewing gum he could have continued around the world. The long way.
Today is May 1, 2011, now officially known as A Bloggers Centerline Day. This moto-world event is the brainchild of Gary France, Harley Road King rider and author of USA Tour on a Harley-Davidson. Head over there to read the rules. If your picture is the winner you’ll receive some cash. But you need to do it today. I had planned to post earlier about the contest but just forgot. Really. Wasn’t trying to minimize the competition…
So here I am, on the road I love so much. When I left the house this morning I was a bit puzzled about where to shoot the picture. Most of the quiet secondary road’s markings are more along the lines of roadkill than paint. Persistence paid off and I was able to make a few shots. Any of you who have made self portraits with a little point and shoot camera know what a pain it is to get the timer working, get the camera in postion, get yourself in position, and then wonder if the thing is going off. And then up and check and do it all again. By the third shot I was dead and on the road.
On into town to meet some friends for breakfast. Sunday morning is quiet in State College. Only the devout students are up this early. Guess there aren’t any devout students. At least not in the alley.
And one last shot on the way home. Another road, another try. With a belly full of eggs, ham, bacon, potatoes and toast, and a big glass of orange juice there was no way I was going to get down on the road again. So here I am, on the centerline, my father’s scruffy old Wolverine boots, celebrating the first ABCD: A Bloggers Centerline Day.
Looking forward to perusing other blogs to see what kind of centerlines are in other parts of the world.
My dog Junior watched with a forlorn look as I rolled the Vespa out of the garage. The language barrier kept me from explaining I would only be gone a few hours, that there was work to do today that would keep me from riding longer, that I would be home soon to offer treats and tennis balls. Riding lust effectively inoculated me from any battered baby seal looks that Junior can muster. I’m immune to canine manipulation.
The riding plan was loose, almost non-existent, a general direction and time constraint with plans to limit my stops for pictures. Charlie6 of Redleg’s Rides inquired about the appearance of the Vespa GTS with the GIVI E370 topcase. That request haunts some of these pictures.
From the moment I twisted the throttle I could feel a vague, mental discomfort about the road ahead. Familiar, and not unlike what best-selling backpacking author Colin Fletcher describes as “Fletcheritis”, the anxiety a hiker feels before a big trip.
A recurring and scurvy condition (typically, a horrendous slump with variegated symptoms, uniformly exhausting and dire, or semi-dire) that oozes into existence at such moments of crisis.
And though I was only planning a trip of a few hours I could quickly tell my heart was elsewhere. Too many thoughts in my head, too many stories swirling in my brain.
A ride is a series of decision points, at least for me when it’s no longer a question of where to go but what to do. A turn off into a field would offer a chance to consider the options. The summer tires on the scooter are not nearly as good off the road as the winter tires I have been using for the past few months. Made a note to be careful.
Another stop, another picture, and I surrender the riding plans and decide on breakfast instead. I can ride another day.
Parked across the street from the Cafe on the Park in Bellefonte, Pennsylvania, a familar breakfast stop. By this time my stomach has taken control from my brain and I’m nothing more than an automaton.
Only one biker in the place. One of those bikers, the kind that have nothing in common with me. And wear clothes with far more words on them than I’m comfortable with. I have a black T-shirt on with the word “NO” in white letters across the chest. It’s a work related thing.
Bacon, the candy of meat. Breakfast erases just about any concern I have. The only way this could have been better is if I was eating it after 120 run that was just the first of four riding legs before needing to be home at 4pm. But that will have to wait for another day when I’m not suffering from psuedoriding relucto wimpism.
After renewing membership in the clean plate club I made plans to ride to the local farmers market to visit a tame animal the owner of the cafe described. Seemed appropriate to visit a petting zoo since I didn’t appear too thrilled with riding.
In the park beyond the Vespa a group of Tai Chi practioners moved in slow motion. For a moment the Vespa seemed overly powerful. Just for a moment and then it returned to it’s utilitarian state.
This is Bentley, a 17 year old American Bison and his owner indicated he is tame, that she raised him by hand from two days old. I inquired on the life span of a bison and was told he cold live for 40 years. Since the owner was at the farmer’s market selling bison steaks and roasts I wondered to myself about his longevity until she interjected that Bentley isn’t worried. He won’t end up on the table.
She shared another interesting factoid — the American Bison is the only land mammal that never gets cancer. Did not know that.
Bought a sirloin steak and headed for home. All plans for a nice long ride evaporated in a cloud of mental resistance. Oh well, I had to go to work anyways…