I invited my friend and fellow Vespa rider, Andy Heckathorne, to share something about his rides. Writing about two-wheeled adventures beyond straight documentation of destinations is a challenge. I asked Andy to explore what was going on in his head. Beyond that, I left things up to him.
Steve Williams
I’m grateful that Steve Williams continues to create and faithfully maintain this trusted space, Scooter in the Sticks. Steve, your photography and insights continue to inspire us – your readers – to look more deeply and more fully appreciate life on two wheels, and life in general. Thank you.
And thank you for the opportunity to share some of my own thoughts and images. I truly appreciate it.
The Vespa is a Time Machine
More often than not, riding the Vespa is a form of self-care. It’s a trip specifically designed to step away from the burdens of life. When riding, I’ve found that it usually takes about 45 minutes or so for my thoughts to fully move from the noise of daily life and I begin to notice and appreciate the sights and sounds around me. Riding is a exercise in gratitude and contentment.
If each new road and experience creates neural pathways and destinations in my brain, then riding the Vespa can be a purposeful way to condition the mind. I want to expand how I see the world through the lens of wonder, awe, and gratitude.
As a result, the question “Where do I want to ride today?” can be a revolt against negative thought patterns. “Getting lost” can be fertile soil sown with seeds of joy, patience, and resourcefulness.
Allotting an entire day for a ride takes this opportunity to a whole new level. There’s an added sense of excitement as I’m transformed into a child putting together his Christmas list. I revisit destination lists stored on my phone and consult online maps. My expectations grow as I visualize myself in unknown places, experiencing new things.
I don’t have to plan an itinerary to have a memorable experience. But I’ve found that when I do, I’m more engaged and eager to receive whatever wrinkles the day may throw my way. It’s funny how the magic often seems to lie in the unexpected.
A Trip Back in Time
2020 hasn’t been easy for any of us. The pandemic and political and social unrest have been at the forefront of our collective minds. In the best of cases, fear and a lack of social contact can take its toll on my psyche, leaving me feeling isolated and depressed. And for many others, circumstances have proven much worse. Darkness seems to hover in the air.
What has that meant for me?
More riding. And longer rides. And this summer, I found myself being drawn to personal thoughts of the distant past. What if I were to travel to places I once lived? Would pleasant memories surface, and could I draw comfort from them? What do these towns look like now? Will I recognize them? How much have they changed?
How much have I changed?
In mid-August, I decided to find out.
I climbed aboard the Vespa and embarked on a day trip, traveling roughly 130 miles west, and 40 plus years into my past, to the place of my first childhood memories: Petrolia, Pennsylvania.
Petrolia is a refinery town in the heart of the rust belt, about 50 miles north of Pittsburgh. In the 1970’s, my family lived here in a gray, 3-story house on Church Street. The house color matched the family car, a rusty, 4-door Chevy Nova. My dad would make his own repairs to the car when he wasn’t teaching elementary school down the road in Bruin. My mom had left a teaching job of her own to stay home and raise my younger sister and I.
Church Street sits on a hill that overlooks the town, and the school bus stop was next to a chain-link fence that separated the world from the clatter and noise of machines and equipment working around the clock. Refinery smells constantly filled our nostrils as smokestacks released God-knows-what into the air.
There were quite a few kids my age in the neighborhood, and we spent our days climbing trees, riding bikes, and hunting sasquatches in the backwoods. The Steelers were winning, Mean Joe was drinking Coke, and my friends and I were tossing nerf footballs and pummeling each other in the backyard.
Life was good.
Destination
As I approached the town on the Vespa, my recollections grew more random. I turned off Argyle Street and headed up the hill towards my final destination. It was as if I were leafing through a dusty old photo album. I recalled the uneven sidewalk on which I’d ridden my first bike, and my insatiable desire to explore the bomb shelter in a neighbor’s yard. I passed by another neighbors’ home, the Hildebrands, and was pleasantly surprised to see their shutters painted in the same royal blue hue that was preserved in my mind’s eye.
I continued my ride down Church Street feeling nostalgically disoriented, marveling at the contrast between 40 years of memories and reality. The houses and streets were a lot smaller than I remembered.
Where was my old house?
The stop sign at the end of the street signified I’d ridden right past without recognizing it. How was that possible? I made a U-turn and headed back up the street.
And there it was.
My boyhood home’s appearance was that of a crumbling shack with exposed wood, sagging rooflines and broken windows. Gone was the duplex next door. The neighbor’s house that sat behind ours just off the alley was gone, too. Also missing was the garage that faced the same alley and my dad’s garden and chicken coop.
I parked the Vespa and approached on foot. The door on the front porch was padlocked, but I could still see through the windows where my dad would hang and butcher any unlucky buck he’d shot during deer season. The marigolds that my mom had planted alongside the house had been replaced with tiger lilies, and the backyard clubhouse my dad had built for me had vanished.
Peering through the broken glass of the side windows, I could see into the living room where I’d watched countless episodes of The Brady Bunch and I Dream of Jeannie. The uniquely shaped staircase balusters triggered memories of bedtime negotiations between children and adults.
Worth
A friend recently told me that he would never go back and visit his old home or neighborhood because he didn’t want to disturb or alter those memories. It’s a fair point, and I do admit to feeling some sense of loss while I conducted my explorations. I further appreciate his saying so, because it’s made me contemplate more deeply whether my trip back was worth it, and even caused me to wonder about the relationship between memories and reality.
The way I interpret the past has a bearing on my decisions now and in the future.
Or so it seems.
Reality
Memories of times past have had a lasting effect on who I am, what I value, and how I see myself. I’ve been told that I still carry a bit of that western Pennsylvania accent along with me too.
That much is real.
And memories held for 40 years are real.
Why?
Is it because I’ve repeatedly drawn on them throughout my life to provide context and grounding and identity?
Or is time merely a temporary hurdle? Is there a greater reality that we sense deep in our souls?
Already the memories of the few hours spent this summer visiting my former town and home have begun to fade. But the modest gray house on Church Street – with fresh paint and a brand-new clubhouse in the backyard – can be visited at a moment’s notice.
In my mind.
Perspective
“Looking at these stars suddenly dwarfed my own troubles and all the gravities of terrestrial life.”
H.G. Wells, The Time Machine
I tend to expend more energy than I’d like dwelling on past circumstances and decisions, personalities and relationships, or perceived victories and failures. It’s often in this space that my identity and self-worth can imperceptibly take center stage as if the universe was constructed to revolve around me. I continue to throw another log on the fire of my ego, regardless of which leading role I play in my mind’s story–the hero, the villain, or the victim.
Riding helps me look outside of myself. It adjusts my perspective to see that I am a bit player in the grand scheme of things. My control is limited. And by loosening my grip on the reigns of life, freedom and peace can be found. I can exhale.
I climb aboard the Vespa, insert the key and press the ignition, and a time machine rumbles to life. This machine made of earthly materials–steel, rubber, and plastic–can transport me from the murky thoughts of space and time to this tangible world and this present moment.
Maybe it stands to reason that a person made of flesh and blood requires such tethering to the physical world. I don’t know.
But what I do know is that here I can feel the wind, the rain, and the sun. It is here that I breathe in the fresh aroma of restaurant food as I roll through town, or the foul odor of a dead skunk. Here I see firsthand the colors of fall or spring, ribbons of fog hovering over the valley, or the threatening clouds of an impending storm. I feel danger. And safety.
I feel alive.
And for that I am grateful.
Thanks Andy for sharing with us YOUR story. It can be energizing to visit previous places where we have lived years ago. Bring back lots of memories.
Yes it does, Karl. I’ve always been fascinated by that “energizing” feeling that seems to accompany me when visiting those places. Part of my identity seems connected to where I’ve lived. Maybe a psychologist can help me with that!
Beautifully written Andy. Your post clearly articulates the feelings within me that until now, I could not describe. Thank you.
I know what you mean, Steel. Quite often my thoughts or feelings remain somewhat fuzzy until someone else articulates it for me. Thanks for the kind words!
I have determined myself that after the memorial service for my recently departed Mother that I won’t go home again. The Levittown of my youth was tract housing with large open fields to play in. Over the decades it has been packed full of even more housing and strip malls. I moved upstate twenty years ago and things continued to build. Traffic is appalling and drivers behave like invading hoards. Recently the open lot behind my childhood home finally succumbed to legal wranglings and more housing is going up crammed against the backyards of the houses adjacent to it. I’m glad I won’t have to see it. I’ll enjoy the larger yards and open spaces, delightful motorcycle roads and more genial inhabitants here in my present home.
Jim, my condolences on the loss of your mother. You offer a perspective I hadn’t fully considered. My father passed away in 2012, and there is no way I could have visited my hometown during those first years. I think it would have been too much to process at once.
It’s good to hear that your present home offers both peace and enjoyment!
Thanks Steve for providing this space. … Thank you Andy – that was a very enjoyable read. I also like to step back in time, visit places, go through the memories, have no regrets doing so.
I’m glad you enjoyed it, Randy. Yes indeed–I’ve found that the Vespa scooter provides a nice cocoon free of interruption where I can process memories and thoughts of all kinds!
I’m glad to have the opportunity to share Andy’s experience with others. I’ve watched his social media channels for awhile and his skill with a camera was apparent. Now I know he has the same skills with words!
Hello Andy,Enjoyed your piece so much I read it twice .Photos were awesome,never been to Spain,or Pennsylvania but Penn. May b a reality someday. Vespa sure looked like a time machine to me …Thanks a million for taking us along…B safe ,take care keep on scooterin ,oh my grandmother sent in an entry Coca cola did and she won a Mean Joe Green football jersey, really don’t watch much football except when the Steelers play,oh have told Steve this before she won me a Bonanza mini bike that same year guess that was my first time machine all of 4 horsepower. Dr.Don
Dr. Don, thank you for your kind and colorful comments. They put a smile on my face. It sounds like you had a wonderful grandmother. It’d be tough to top a Mean Joe jersey and Bonanza mini bike in the same year! The older I get, the less football I seem to watch — but I rarely miss the Steelers. Keep rooting them on and come visit us in Pennsylvania once this pandemic subsides!
Hello Andy, Much of what you wrote really resonated with me. As a life-long motorcyclist and now (late to the party) scooterist I always make an effort to do a ride back to my hometown once every couple of years. It’s a nice ride, but time hasn’t been good to the town itself. Like so many small towns the once important small businesses in the downtown area have been basically abandoned for the big box strip malls on the outskirts of town. It’s sad. As I’ve aged I also have tended to slow down more when I ride and prefer to ride alone, lost in my thoughts and the alive to the sound and smells around me.
Hi Maurice, I prefer to ride alone as well. It’s fun to switch it up sometimes and ride with a friend, but going solo means I have time to process life or stop at a moment’s notice to take a photo. I agree that it’s sad to see small towns and family businesses struggle or disappear. Perhaps the connection we have to our physical roots reminds us of our own mortality? I’m not sure. Either way, stay safe out there!
Hello Andy
I live in the boreal forest precambrian shield of Northern Saskatchewan Canada. I ride a Yamaha BWS 50cc and a Piaggio Beverly Touring scooter 250cc.
Your time machine tour has me thinking about doing the same thing next summer.
Mere words cannot clearly express my feelings as I went along with you on your homeward bound Vespa ride. There is something deep within our souls that is enriched by sharing the same thoughts with another like minded person.
I’ve been a fan of Andy’s for some time now. His writings and photos inspired me to ride my Yamaha scooter from my home north of La Ronge to the big city of Saskatoon. 500 miles in three days was so much fun. Slow is the new fast. A Russian saying that I like says, the slower you go the further you get.
Please keep writing and sharing. Stay safe along with staying blissed out on life as you enjoy your solo rides.
Robert Micheal Lessard known as Mick
Hi Mick,
It’s a cool feeling to be told that your perspective is shared by another, especially one who lives in a distant and different part of the world. Thank you for your kind words!
I’m still amazed at the technology that allows us to form connections with one another from such vast distances, and it’s kind of a miracle anytime our humanity survives the arduous trip through all that binary code.
Your description of where you live and what you ride captivated me, and I was soon googling La Ronge and Saskatoon, Laurentia and the Canadian Shield. I can’t help but visualize you aboard one of your terrestrial rovers, traveling back through time and space as you explore those ancient boreal forests.The twin lights and futuristic shape of your Yamaha BWS 50 seem to make it fit especially well into this mental picture.
Please let me know if you take that time machine tour next summer. I’d love to hear what the experience is like for you. Be well and stay safe!
Wow! Andy that is a wonderful idea. The Yamaha is my favorite scooter. I think people would enjoy seeing a part of the world where people lived since the mile high ice left this area.
I’m feeling the same as you when I see the goodness of being connected with like minded people.
I rode my Yamaha on the north gravel rode to the Churchill River bridge. It was on Easter weekend a couple of years ago. Time for the time machine to go there and beyond once again. It is only fifty miles north of here. Another trip that I completed in September of that years was down the old 969 Saskatchewan gravel highway that used to connect La Ronge with the city of Prince Albert. That was a 350 kilometer day ride. It was fun.
On a fun note about when the highway was finished in 1947 one of the very first cars to arrive were couple police officers from the States. They heard about easy access to the best fishing in Canada.
Johnny Cash and June visited quite often. They loved the people and the scenery.
Andy, more Americans visit La Ronge each year than people from the rest of Saskatchewan.
Whoa! This is getting to be a long reply.
Stay Safe on the bright side of the shadow.
Mick
Mick,
I did some more googling after your most recent reply. This time I pulled up photos of La Ronge and the surrounding area. (Last time I was mostly reading descriptions about it on Wikipedia.) I’m glad I did!
You truly live in a beautiful part of the world. I have a fascination with bridges, so I was eager to see your Churchill River Bridge. There’s a grandness to the overall look of things. The sharp angles of rock and land meeting the water is very distinctive and its incredible to consider what mile high ice would have looked like a million years ago, not to mention it’s role in sculpting your territory.
The old 969 gravel highway looks and sounds very intriguing. From what I can tell, that is exactly the kind of road that gets me excited about riding!
It’s good to hear your American neighbors help support the economy with tourism dollars. Even Johnny and June! On the whole, I hope you find the visitors to be friendly and respectful. I might be able to relate in some regard. Here in State College, our university town becomes the third largest city in the state of Pennsylvania on football weekends, so I am familiar with some of the pros and cons and adjustments that residents must make when there is an influx of visitors.
Thanks for this enjoyable exchange, Mick! The next time I think of western Canada, I will no doubt imagine you aboard your Yamaha or Piaggio, exploring space and time.
I’m glad people liked Andy’s recollections of his ride on the time machine. It raises some interesting ideas about memory and the past.
And thanks again Andy for sharing your words and pictures.
Steve, thanks again for trusting me to share with your followers. Your guidance and feedback throughout the process were invaluable.
As a follower of your blog, I’ve been spoiled over the years by the quality of your photographs and insights. It will be good to get back to reading from the man himself!
Hey Andy… two of the biggest things I’ve been missing since bailing on Instagram, are the voices and images from you and Steve.
Thomas Wolfe told us, “You can never go home again.” which, I guess, is akin to… we never step in the same river twice. To my mind, your wonderful piece both affirms Wolfe’s thesis and beautifully illustrates the value of our looking back, as a way of observing just how far we have travelled forward. Thanks for taking us on a wonderful journey Andy… and thank you Steve for teeing this up for us. xo
Terry, it’s great to hear from you again and I’m grateful for the kind words. You and your photography are equally missed over on Instagram, though I understood why you stepped away.
I have not yet read your recommendation–Coffinman–but intend to. This holiday break would be the perfect time.
Good thoughts…”we never step in the same river twice.” My mind can easily view that statement with a sense of loss, but reluctantly I see the promise in it as well. Steve suggested to me just yesterday that the present doesn’t surrender to my desires or wants. And I can’t be a hero in the present…just me. This seemed like a good explanation for my own reluctance to embrace it. But I digress!
Thank you for saying hello, and I trust you and yours have a happy and safe holiday season!
As Andy said, your photography on Instagram is missed.
Thanks for the kind words and I hope you and your family are doing well.
On a completely unrelated note — this comment to you Terry is the 20 thousandth, non-spam comment on Scooter in the Sticks!
Hey Steve… I’m hoping I stand as an early mile marker on the long and winding road down which you are guiding us. We are all better for the journey. .
I hope the road winds on for a long time. And thank you for your kind words.