The Gray World
Drifting through the melancholy gray of winter with little desire to ride or write. The scooter moves through its cold morning stutters to support whatever weak explorations I mount. And then, mostly, my mind is full of promises of home. Home, warm and resting, until some change of mind and thought takes hold and I once again freely move along on the Vespa.
Despite the gray I do ride. The bitter cold has been replaced by the murk that rises from the thawing landscape. My forlorn spirit crying for light. On the road, on foot, or seated with hot tea in solitude — my mind seems to wander through sadness and loss.
Enya Evacuee (click image to view song in YouTube)
I was listening to Enya’s Evacuee when I was struck by the absence of my mother, gone now some 28 years. A recollection of grief one moment, and then she’s close; I can feel her presence. The music always strikes a chord in me; of longing and regret, of missing so many chances to know her. The folly of youth.
She would not approve of my Vespa riding. Certainly not those during snow and darkness.
Therapy
My physician suggested a therapeutic course of Vitamin D to help address the fatigue I’ve been feeling. If that’s what it is.
On the road, finally, the ride will transport me above the physic clouds, moves me beyond to the familiar flight of thrills I expect when riding. It’s the state that drives me into the cold and gray where I find satisfaction in living and breathing. It’s what the Vespa ignites.
Fading Snow
The snow has faded as the temperature increased. Only the unpaved forest roads and farm lanes hold any impediments to riding. With no winter tires I don’t attempt much travel off the beaten path.
Fog in the Mountains
There’s fog in the mountains. Another world. Reminds me of the walks in the Alps I made with my mother as a child — high above the valleys, wandering trails above the tree line, cows emerging from the mist as we made our way to an inn or cafe. I wonder what drove my mother to take these hikes. Was she driven into the world as I am? The time for those questions is gone from view.
It’s been awhile since I’ve ridden in fog. I’m always smitten by the mystery of it. And the danger lurking as well as vehicles seem to spring out of nowhere.
My mom would hate my blog and the deeds it chronicles.
Promises of Home
I wander and seek the wind in my face. And I find myself a cafes talking with friends, eating, or just sitting alone with pen and paper.
I wrote this post with a new fountain pen. The silver nib glides across the page in an old Moleskine journal, much in the way the Vespa moves along rural roads. Smooth. Effortless.
If only my mind was so smooth. It would make for a different ride. Instead, for now, I’m more focused on promises of home.
Memories.
The present seems hard to find in the grayness.
The air got colder and the tea got warmer as I read this post as the writing took me in the fog that has formed around you. Hopefully it will not last.
Mothers are interesting. Mine would on one hand tell me how glad she was I went on adventures and the next minute say “riding a scooter across Egypt is stupid. I don’t know why you want to do that”. In Egypt, I met my friend Tarek’s mother. Her qoute, “I don’t know why you boys want to ride those scooters across the desert”.
We’ve had more foggy, cold mornings since you posted your comment. Many of them I had to miss on the Vespa due to demands at home. But I’ve managed a few short, sweet rides. And like your friend’s mother wondering why you would want to ride across the desert, my own mother would wonder the same about the fog…
Steve-
What I read today was true poetry. A tribute to your dear mother. Beautiful.
Thank you Floyd. So sorry for the long delay in responding to your comment. Daily life is hectic at the moment and it has been hard to wrap my head around much beyond my wife’s recent surgery. Finally finding some mental space to return here.
I like the meandering look of the narrow road in the first pic….sounds like you’re undergoing some mental meandering as well.
I’ve spent my life in mental meandering of one sort or another. Sometimes it a fine journey. Other times not so much…
I lost my mother in 2014, and my father followed her in 2016. I miss them more than I can bear sometimes.
Sorry for your loss. I didn’t realize how big a space mine left until some time after they were gone. The grief and pain evaporated eventually and I was left with only fine memories. In that place I realized how large they were in my life.
My mother didn’t like motorcycles either, but she took time off work to cosign for me to buy my first one. Sweet woman. Everybody loved her, especially my father. She died long before him, but he would never even look at another woman.
I would say you definitely had a unique mother if she was able to see through her discomfort to aid you in what has become a life long passion. Sounds like your father knew as well.
I remember 50 years ago, when as a teenager I wanted to get my first motorcycle. No one in my family had EVER had one, ridden one, or had any interest in one. I asked my mom if I could get one and she replied, “Hell no, are you out of your mind?” Later that day when my father came home from his office, I told him what Mom had said and of my desire to get one. He replied, “Don’t tell her anything. I’ll take care of it, and we’ll surprise her!” So off my dad and I went to get council from some friend of his who had been riding full dresser Harleys for decades. In front of me he told my dad that I might as well get what I’ll end up with – a Harley! So as a 120 pound 17-year-old that’s how I got my first motorcycle – and it was a Harley (my 1st and last Harley BTW).
My mother swore like a sailor. Told dirty stories and jokes. She had a real crazy personality and I know that’s where I get mine .
I have a picture of her sitting on my CB350 Honda back in the 70ds. I took her for her first ride and she wanted me to ride by her friends house so that she could show off. At one point during the ride she asked if this was as fast as it goes. Took it up to 70 and she was yelling “”yeehaw “. Crazy fun and full of life. She once told me that you should not arrive at the funeral home in a perfectly preserved body. You are supposed to slide in headfirst, clothes torn, Bleeding and say it was a hell of a ride.
Really liked the Enya video; melancholy but with hope. Been on 5000 iu of vitamin D for several years now after I read an article in MCN on its benefits. Am now finding that my gray hair is turning back to dark brown. I think I’d also recommend to you a small table top ethanol fireplace maybe like this: https://www.homedepot.com/p/Nu-Flame-Lampada-7-in-Tabletop-Decorative-Bio-Ethanol-Fireplace-in-Black-NF-T2LAA/204755002 Nothing like a nice small flame to brighten spirits. When I think of my parents (now also both gone) I think of the opportunities they missed interacting with their grandchildren and vow not to repeat their error.
Great photography as usual, Steve. I’m especially drawn to the one you lead off with. It’s fun to “ride the road” with your eyes all the way into the distance.
Interesting how memories of departed loved ones can suddenly appear out of nowhere through the trigger of a song, or a smell, or nothing at all. I lost my dad a few years ago and experience this as well from time to time.
I was privileged this past year to take my mom for a ride on my Vespa. She is in her mid seventies now, but still maintains an adventurous side. We traveled around State College a bit and then stopped at Rey Azteca for some Mexican food before heading back home to Zion. It’s a good memory.
Oh, our Moms: Mine fretted when I decided to get back on a bicycle at age 21, less than a year after my Dad died from a heart attack (yep, that was a motivator); she was dead certain I’d meet my maker on the mean streets of Gotham, but was amazed that I managed to maintain life and limb until she was no longer able to. Did she truly understand my passion for riding? Hardly. I could deal.
Snowflakes are dancing as I write this on a NJ Transit train heading into Gotham. Speaking of the winter blues, I deemed it safer to leave Melody at home, and caught a cab to the station in Asbury instead: in spite of last night’s forecast, we got some two inches of snow, and between that, the city slush I espied in the road in front to the house and on the bridge nearby, things looked too risky. Bummer – the ride to and from the Long Branch station is definitely a tonic when I’m not at my perkiest, and and a lovely thing when I’m feelin’ just groovy. And while I’ve been lucky not suffer noticeable fatigue, I will admit this part of the year regularly drags me down a but physically. Then again, I remind myself: I could be in Norway…
You made me think of my own mother. To her credit, she’s never been overly protective….have a picture of her posing next to my Puch 50 in 1969 that I rode all over the farm, and she was my “enabler” when I joined the scooter world 40 years later.
I believe our lost ones are still out there, but have a more understanding perspective than they did in life. Either that or I want to rationalize their approval of what’s in my heart to do.
Good on the Vitamin D. I’ve tried to keep up with the research with some success…impressive benefits on so many fronts, and cheap enough too….
Ah, forgot to add that while mom’s still alive, at 86, probably not too thrilled to ride anymore, but I did have her as a pillion maybe 5 years ago, and it’s a sweet memory that she could join me, even briefly.
Wow. That is a fine memory to have.
It’s odd to think about my mother and protective. BB guns and motorcycles would be on the bad list. But at 9 years old she would let me walk three miles to get a bus into Pittsburgh where I could spend the whole day wandering the city. It was a different world in 1963.
Can’t say I’ve noticed a lot of difference yet with the vitamin D but I’m still taking it. Maybe the fact that I’m finally responding to comments on the blog is a positive sign!
When others write of their parents, we often remind ourselves what was and how long each of our own parents lived. My Dad died in 1982 at age 62, of a malignant tumour at the top of his spine, my mother died from effects of early dementia at age 95 in 2011. A
long interval for many.
My mother never even looked at another man after Dad died. She would without much probation burst into tears a and sobbing anytime he was mentioned; by anybody.
Our family on both sides were early adopters of cremation, I too shall follow the same path if and when. Dad died on a Tuesday evening, was cremated on the Thursday, his service was on Saturday; cremains were kept in a small wooden box until the burial site was fully prepared a year and a bit later. Mum joined him in 2011; I have my own plot with fully prepared marker illustrating my Honda Goldwing, a 4-4-0 steam locomotive and a bright yellow flower with a smiling face…the next plot east.
Time passes, and with each passing year memory of my father is less focused whereas with Mum it has been a much shorter time; I still miss them both. Their kindness and care for me; and yes their concern whenever i rode my motorcycle. My past revolves are around them, my employment, and latterly my existence with severe depression and then massive medical problems due to Lupus and cancer and chemo .Mum was there for me then; Dad i suspect was keeping an eye on me from somewhere. My parents are always with me; I just have to listen to their words. I believe in spirits and an afterlife, and those of our past guiding us. . Am now ten years older than when my Dad died, my Mum had 25 years beyond my current age..
Yes Steve, it is the trigger of something that allows us to remember our parents and too those who we knew from before, including friends and others who have gone before us.
There are reasons for said triggers, perhaps Kim’s illness trigger thoughts of your Mum.
That long winding road ahead can be thought to what life holds for you, me and others.
Will the said road terminate abruptly or will continue for all of us for many years to come?
It is not we who make that determination.
We who follow your blog do so not with dread for the future, rather the positive feelings from your recorded journals. These allow us a view into another world, of a retired gentleman upon the two wheeled chariot Vespa. Say hello to the dogs and Kim.
Parents are tricky no doubt — in life and death. And each of us has a unique experience of both. I always try to find parallels between my experience and that of others but often there isn’t one. You mention losing focus on memories of your father. That has been the case with my mother to some degree — probably because she’s been gone longer. But as the focus has diminished I have found a sense of both of them being with me. Strange.
From your comments and those of others the idea of a parent moving on after losing their spouse, or not moving on, is a curious thing. I’ve witnessed some who remarry or re-engage and I have to say in many cases that spouse has been seen in a negative light. As if they’re betraying the memory of their partner. Not sure what to make of that. Or that the one left behind never re-engages with another person is more noble. Not sure that’s the right term. The whole thing is odd. But again, each person marches to their own drummer. Maybe out responsibility is to just stay out of their way and let them live their life.
Anyway, I hope my post triggered some fond memories for you. And as we all move along that road toward the end we have time for good memories, friends and chances to pat a dog on the head…
I’m so sorry you were feeling foggy and gray, Steve. I hope that the fog has lifted some since you posted this…
Yeah, it has. But oh so slowly…